


Lúthien's Gift

by Passion_Fruit_Headquarters



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Differences, Everybody Lives, Fake Character Death, Good Parent Thranduil, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nobody is Dead, Prophetic Dreams, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Passion_Fruit_Headquarters/pseuds/Passion_Fruit_Headquarters
Summary: It is said of Lúthien that she begged a gift from the Valar, that elves destined to love a mortal might receive forewarning through prophetic dreams. Whether this has turned out to be a blessing or a curse is a matter of some debate.Or: Gigolas, Sleeping Beauty edition.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 127
Kudos: 199





	1. The Discovery

It had been two days since the rain had come but the skies had yet to clear and the ground was still damp. It stuck to Gimli's boots as he tramped back and forth, clods of dirt pulled up and clinging wetly. He was waiting to meet his uncle, Óin. They had agreed to meet outside the mountain before continuing to Laketown, but Óin was late. In truth, Gimli was in a patient mood and would not mind, except that the air carried a chill that kept him pacing back and forth to chase it away.

The gates of Erebor were open, for a caravan of merchants was returning from their journeys. Gimli watched them idly, waving to a few familiar faces as they passed. The bright colors of their hair and jewelry made a pleasant contrast to the dreariness of the day. Gimli had stepped off the path to give the wagons room, and after a little while he wandered further afield, seeking to drive the cold from his bones. He was just thinking of whether or not he ought to go back inside the mountain to wait for Óin, and whether they would be able to find each other in the busy throng of people, when the ground gave way beneath his left boot.

Gimli adjusted his weight on instinct, falling to his knees but avoiding the edge of the hole his foot had discovered. _A sinkhole,_ he supposed, peering into it. _And of a pretty size, too. That could have ended poorly!_

Carefully, Gimli leaned over to look. There had been a ragged semicircle already visible as he'd been walking by; it had been the ground next to it that he had trodden on, thinking it safe. Now he could see that this hole, rather than the sort to twist an ankle, would more likely swallow a person whole. It was at least as deep as he was tall, and Gimli looked at it without fear but with a healthy dose of caution. It was in his mind that if one such sinkhole had opened up there may well be more.

It was as he was thinking this that the clouds parted a moment, brightening the earth. In the depths of the hole, Gimli saw something glint.

It was curiosity that took hold of him then. Gimli was not given to treasure-lust; and besides, he was cousin to a king, and familiar with the history and fate of all dwarven treasure, at least in a general sense. He did not think it likely that there were any valuables lost in the earth on Erebor's very doorstep.

So there was no urgency to him as he carefully drew himself forward to peer directly into the hole. Dwarven eyes are built for working in low light, but it was an overcast morning, and so Gimli had to look for many minutes before he could begin to make sense of what he was looking at.

Just as slowly as he had come forward, Gimli edged himself back. When he was far enough away he sat up, then stood. For many minutes he stayed silent and still, thinking. Then the chill prevailed against him and he drew back to the mountain, but not before crafting a makeshift flag from a handkerchief to mark the spot.

The sun had moved in the sky a ways before Gimli returned to the field, and thin fingers of sunlight were breaking through the heavy clouds. He brought with him more than a dozen dwarves, and with them his cousin Thorin.

Thorin was an active king, much involved with the happenings of his kingdom, and when Gimli told him of his discovery he'd decided to come see for himself and decide what was to be done. Thorin's presence accounted for most of the other dwarves; his guards and advisors. Gimli had brought some friends as well, armed with rope and a stretcher and other such materials.

Under the eyes of his king Gimli directed the operation. Despite the care they had to exercise on ground too ready to crumble, it did not take long to pull their quarry from the earth. At the sight of it, many astonished and disquieted cries went up. Gimli looked at the thing and felt yet more uneasy than he'd expected, though he'd already seen it once. Drawn up into clearer view, it seemed harder to look at rather than easier. The once shining skin was sullied with dirt and what Gimli suspected was long dried blood. The hair was so filthy its color was impossible to pin down. The clothes had deteriorated into little more than rags. It was a harrowing look at a creature Gimli had never expected, or wanted, to see brought so low.

Gimli's eyes lingered most on the fingertips; completely black with dirt and filth. He had a horrid suspicion that the poor creature had not yet been dead when it had fallen into the sinkhole. He glanced at his cousin, wondering if the same morbid thought had occurred to him, and saw that Thorin's attention had seized instead on the face. Thorin looked the way Gimli felt, and Gimli wished for a moment that he had never wandered into the field, never found the body - but really he wished there had been no body to find. It seemed a cruel death, and Gimli was sickened to see it. He followed Thorin's gaze and felt the breath stutter in his chest.

There, clear even through the additional dirt which had settled over the years, were tear tracks streaking the elf's beautiful face.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In the end Thorin ordered that the body be put to rights. Only once the elf and its clothes were clean could they begin to identify where it had come from and when it had died. There was much discussion then over who ought to do it, and ultimately the task fell to Gimli.

He rescheduled his plans with Óin and set to work the same day.

It was fortunate that Gimli had a workshop in his home; he would not have liked to go about his macabre task with an audience. Even without one he felt ill at ease, his fingers unsure. He had seen elves before, once or twice, but only from a distance. Certainly he had never touched one.

Gimli considered the elf with a craftman’s eye. He tugged on the soil-dark clothes experimentally; they were stiff, and well-stuck to the skin they covered. It was that skin that Gimli touched next. The elf was covered from toe to neck, and its sleeves were long. Something in Gimli shied away from those hands, and the memory of desperation carried in the filthy fingernails. Instead, he placed a careful hand on the fine-boned face, cupping the jaw. The skin was not so tough as he’d expected, and even after what Gimli suspected was years in the earth, he couldn’t see evidence of decay. Within the warmth of his rooms, the elf’s skin hardly seemed lifeless at all. It was surpassing strange, to see something so clearly dead, and yet….But that was the way of elves. Strangers to death, it was said.

Gimli looked at the body and sighed. It seemed to him that he was unfit for the job he’d been given. But then, who but another elf would understand what needed to be done? All Gimli could do was make the body presentable. Then they would know which elves to return it to, and a proper burial could be given. Gimli personally suspected it was a Mirkwood elf, and he had a feeling that was also the thought of his king. They would know for sure once all of the muck was cleaned away.

As he set about his task, Gimli found that it was easier if he thought of the elf as a particularly odd piece of metalwork. A strange new project with even stranger needs was an easier enterprise than the care of a corpse. And it wasn’t entirely untrue; after all, was he not conducting a restoration of something already built?

"You could almost be a statue," Gimli murmured. He often spoke to the things he shaped; it calmed him, and calm was what he needed now. "Though you're softer than any stone I've ever touched." He squeezed a hand in emphasis. With the sole exception of the face, the hands were the first things he’d set to cleaning. "Well..." Gimli considered. "Except for sandstone. It is well named, for it crumbles beneath your touch until it is nothing but sand. There is give to you, aye, but you don't seem much inclined to crumbling."

Gimli had a bucket of warm water and a washcloth, and as he spoke he was slowly cleaning the elf's arm. He had to gently and slowly work the elf's clothing away from its skin where it had pressed for so long. He wasn't sure why he took the effort to use warm water. There was the vague thought that perhaps the warmth could soften elven joints and undo some of the rigor mortis that had the elf still curled up on its side. It seemed to be helping; Gimli knew nothing of how elves typically decomposed, except that he had heard they didn't. And now he could see that it was the truth. With its face clear of filth, the elf looked like it could be sleeping.

Gimli dipped his cloth back into the bucket and kept going, methodically working the clothing away from the skin even as he cleaned. All the while he spoke to the elf, describing what he was doing, what he was planning, and whatever odd things came to his mind. When he glanced at the elven face at the end of the evening, he thought those distant features, now carefully cleaned, seemed peaceful. It was a far better sight than it had been, and Gimli spent a minute simply looking. Dwarves were often born with the first fluffy indications of a beard, and so it felt a little odd to see a face so bare. Still, the elf did not look incomplete. There was something balanced in its construction, something which kept his interest in a face which by all rights ought to have looked uninteresting. Beautiful, certainly, but dull.

Realizing he was staring, Gimli turned away. He yet had some tasks to accomplish before he could sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been something like a decade since I've written fanfiction and I decided it was time to have another go at it. I'm using this fic to relearn how to write, so I apologize for my mistakes. If anyone knows how I could find a beta or is willing to beta this for me please let me know. Or you could just drop a comment about any errors. I'd really appreciate it. Not sure when I'll next post, but I do have a little over 10,000 words already written. I promise even if I abandon this story - and it's my sincere intention not to - I will post everything I've written for it first.
> 
> Also, I realize that the first chapter and the story summary don't seem to have anything in common. Don't worry. All shall be explained. <3


	2. Restoration

The next morning Gimli stumbled out of his bedroom, bleary eyed and still shaking off the remnants of a strange dream. It was of the sort that leaves behind an unsettling feeling of urgency. In it he’d been looking for something but had, curiously, been as afraid of finding it as of not.

By the time the water for his morning tea boiled, Gimli’s memory of the dream had all but disappeared. He turned his thoughts – and his gaze – to the elf.

His efforts from the previous evening had helped, but it was clear that an actual bath was going to be necessary. Gimli knew that dead bodies became bloated in water and over time could turn gruesome, but he was hoping that an hour or two wouldn’t do any harm. Elves were strange folk anyhow. If an elven body could lie for years in the earth and remain untouched by maggots, a little water shouldn’t make a difference.

Thus decided, Gimli set to work transferring the elf into the bathtub. The hardest part was managing the awkward length of the body and keeping the limbs from bashing into anything; the weight, though a little more than he’d expected, was negligible. He found himself wondering more than once how such a delicate race could be such mighty warriors, and yet he knew that it was so. Less than two hundred years ago, an elf had even defeated a dragon, here in Erebor. Most elves were not such friends to dwarves, but it would not do to underestimate their skill in combat nevertheless.

The body seemed to have loosened even more after its time next to the fire, and Gimli had to remind himself that this was one long dead as he arranged the slender limbs in the tub. While he worked, Gimli kept up a steady stream of words. He found it helped pass the time, and so amused himself speaking as if to the elf of everything and anything he could think of. Exploits from his youth, tall tales, bits of his favorite folklore…. And all the while, he gently worked fabric loose and cleaned away dirt. The bath was emptied and refilled four times in three hours, but finally the clothes were all in a pile on the floor and that softly gleaming skin was wiped clean.

The elf was male. Gimli hadn’t been expecting one way over another – the elf was too alien to be making guesses – so it wasn’t exactly a surprise, nor was it expected. Gimli simply noted it and moved on; in action, anyway, if not in thought. He had curiosity enough to wish to look more deeply yet was determined to be professional. It was only that elves were so different – so narrow, so comparatively hairless, so…so _sleek_ – that curiosity was only natural. But at the end of the day, it was the body of a stranger past consenting to be looked at, so Gimli kept his eyes averted as much as he could while he worked.

Finally, there was only one thing left to do. Gimli’s bath chambers contained three tubs, the large one the elf was in, and two smaller, meant for hair and beard. The one for hair was attached to the end of the bath, so that a dwarf could tilt their head back as they bathed and clean their hair separately. There was also a soft cover which could be placed across the empty basin and used to cradle the head without wetting the hair, for most dwarven hair was dense and dried out easily. It was better not to wash such hair every day or else risk causing damage.

That cover was in use now, and Gimli had kept the elf’s head resting there as he’d worked. Now he cast a sheet over the elf’s nakedness and set about filling the little basin.

With everything ready, Gimli hesitated. His hands hovered over the elf's dirty hair, not quite touching. For dwarves, to wash another's hair was intimate, a task usually reserved for close friends, battle comrades, family and lovers. He had no way of knowing how it was for elves but supposed it must be the same.

Gimli thought for a few moments, but there was no way around it. "Sorry lad," he murmured as his hands settled on that dirty scalp. "But I reckon you'd want to be clean, even if that means accepting a little help. I have good hands, so I'm told, so don't you worry. This won't take long."

These and other such assurances Gimli spoke to the elf as he worked. Of course he knew that the elf was past complaint, but it eased something in his chest to treat him with as much dignity and courtesy as he would a living being. In some ways, to acknowledge that he dealt only with a corpse would make his job unbearable.

The elf’s hair was longer than Gimli had realized. When he stretched a lock to its full length it reached all the way to the narrow hip. The more he cleaned it, the more beautiful it became, until he was in awe of its splendor. Yellow it was, and warm as golden honey. To watch the firelight flicker over it was as enthralling as any jewel he'd yet seen, and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he'd spoken it aloud.

It was easy to transition his idle comments into admiration, particularly because he had no fear of a response. He praised the elf in much the same way he often praised his metalworks for their beauty and cooperation.

"Such a lovely thing you are," he said as he settled the elf back in front of the fire, tucking the sheet in around him. Restoring the clothes and weapons would be his next step, but the sheet would do until then. "And a brave fighter, or I've much missed my guess. Can't say I care for elven weapons - a good solid axe would do you better, I reckon - but I can appreciate a fellow warrior.

"Which is to say," Gimli said slowly. Suddenly he felt very shy. "I can promise you your weapons will be well taken care of. That bow is past saving, I'm afraid, and I expect the arrows are too. But the knife - that is a different matter."

For a moment Gimli was silent, merely watching the firelight flicker across the elf's still features. Cleaned of filth and in unsteady lighting, the elf did not look dead. If Gimli had not affected the restoration himself he might have thought the elf merely sleeping.

A pang of grief struck him, sudden and sharp in its illogic. Gimli swallowed, a little thickly. One warrior to another, he could extend this respect. "You will have your knife back again, Master Elf. I have only taken it so I may clean it, and give life back to metal long neglected. Many years you must have cared for it; I hope you do not mind assistance from another, just this once. But you shall be returned to your people with all your possessions, to be laid to rest in the elven way. This I swear to you."

If the elf's spirit was impressed by this declaration it had no way to show it. The body remained insensate. The fire crackled. Gimli felt abruptly foolish and hurried off to see about the clothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more weird stuff. I ask anyone getting a little worried to please check my tags and don't worry; everything will be explained. Of course, whether my explanation will satisfy you - well. I hope so. We shall see.
> 
> Also, reminder that I am very much open to comments & critique. I'm writing this to try to remember how to tell a story; I expect I'm making many mistakes. If you notice anything, from grammar to a broken plot point or just a distracting writing quirk, please do let me know. I'm also open to advice about things like proper tagging, if something isn't tagged you think should be. Thank you very much and I hope you're enjoying this strange journey with me. :)


	3. Identification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the previous two chapters you might like Roselightfairy’s fic Muse. I wasn’t consciously inspired by it, but there are some similar elements, and it’s a really good fic with an interesting premise. Here’s the summary:
> 
> Reincarnation/Second Singing AU. Modern-day Gimli is a talented sculptor just finishing up the biggest and most unprecedented project of his life – a marble statue of what looks like an elf from some kind of high fantasy novel. He’s never made anything this good before, especially not without a model – but strangely enough, he feels almost like he has seen this image before, as though in a long-ago dream - or even another life . . .
> 
> Link is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498007/chapters/43834315

Only three days after the body of an elf was pulled from the ground outside of Erebor, King Thorin received a message from his young kinsman, Gimli Glóinul, that the body and assorted artifacts were cleaned and ready for identification.

Thorin sent a runner ahead of him as a courtesy and set out with his advisors to pay his young cousin a visit. It was unorthodox, but better than requiring that the elf be carried to him through Erebor to be gawked at by passersby. He had a suspicion as to the elf’s identity, and until he knew for certain, it would do no harm to treat him with respect.

Gimli ushered them in graciously. Thorin saw him peer curiously at the engraved box Prince Frerin held, but he said nothing, only directed them to the elf.

Thorin approached the body slowly. Gimli had laid it out on a table, wrapped in a Durin blue sheet from chest to ankles. The clothes and weapons were laid out nearby. It only took one glance to see why Gimli hadn’t redressed the elf; between the damp and the dirt, the clothes were clearly past saving. They would have to have something made up; there was nothing fitted to elvish measurements under the mountain.

Thorin drew close to the elf, staring down into the face. It was much the same as any other elven face, with features simultaneously flawless and plain. Lovely, perhaps, but boring. No, Thorin’s attention was caught by the hair; a deep golden color he had seen once before, flashing beneath dragon fire.

The sound of wood sliding over wood caught Thorin’s attention, and he turned. Frerin had opened the case he’d brought with him and was drawing out a long elvish knife. It was polished and well kept, with one glaring exception; the blade was bent towards the end, and unbalanced. At the sight of it, Thorin heard Gimli suck in a breath. Frerin held the knife in one hand and with the other picked up a second blade from the elf’s belongings, identical but for the damaged blade and the wear it had sustained. Expressionless, he compared the two for a long moment. Then he looked to his king and nodded.

Thorin turned away with a grimace. It was only confirmation of what he already knew, but it weighed heavily nonetheless. He had hoped….Well. What he had hoped was of no import now.

It was only fair that the one who had restored the elf learn of his identity first, and so Thorin turned to Gimli to announce, “This is no mere elf; this is Smaug-killer, whose actions a hundred and seventy-one years ago saved Erebor from ruin.”

He paused, weighing his next words. The room was silent and still. “For your discovery of–” Thorin threw a quick glance backwards, double checking “–him, you will help lead a team in constructing a coffin fit for one so honored.”

Gimli bowed his acceptance. He was a little wide around the eyes and kept shooting fleeting looks at the elf. Frerin stepped forward respectfully, and Thorin nodded at him.

“It must be done quickly. This equipment is of Mirkwood. Surely he was one of Thranduil’s folk.” Left unspoken was that it would not take long to send the wood elves a message and receive their reply.

Thorin resisted the urge to sigh. In truth, that Smaug-killer hailed from Mirkwood had long been an unspoken assumption under the mountain. There were no other settlements of elves close enough to be likely. But that did not mean he was pleased to hear it confirmed. They may not be at war with their neighbors in the forest, but neither were they friends. Ever had elves seemed strange to Thorin, and wood-elves were of all types the strangest. He nodded again, tired.

“We must inform the elves of their loss. And yet, after a hundred and seventy-one years, I do not believe another month will make a difference. We must have our chance to honor Smaug-killer before he is taken back to his people; and I would have him go in splendor.”

This decided, Thorin and his revenue departed, several murmuring to each other. The news would surely be all over the mountain by nightfall. Wondering at the size of the distraction this would prove to be, Thorin nodded grandly to Gimli one last time and swept off down the hallway. There really wasn’t ever a dull moment in Erebor.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Gimli closed the door carefully. He stood for a moment just staring at the wood. He didn’t think he could look at the elf again just yet.

_Smaug killer!_ Of all the things the elf could have been…it was a great honor Gimli was being given, to see to the coffin of such a strange yet hallowed figure in Ereborian legend. The Mad Elf, he was called, but also _Hero_ and _Dragon-Slayer_. Surely Gimli was blessed, even just to be the one to find such a person. And yet…and yet…

All these years – since before Gimli was even born – dwarves had wondered about that strange elf. Where had he come from? Where did he vanish to? Had he returned to his people to live a quiet, anonymous life? Or had he continued committing mighty deeds, perhaps hunting down orcs or goblins? The dwarves had not spoken to men nor elves about how the great Worm met his ruin, but they had listened intently, waiting to hear tales of an elf claiming that final victory.

But no one ever took credit, and the flames of gossip and speculation grew ever higher in the absence of any true answers. And yet, in all his years, Gimli could not remember anyone ever seriously suggesting that the battle which saw Smaug slain may have also dealt the mortal blow to his killer.

Gimli turned and approached the elf without truly seeing him. In his mind’s eye, he could picture it; the mad elf, filled with battle fever, stabbing the beast through its mighty heart, then staggering up again. According to the tales the elf had simply walked out of the mountain, never to be seen again. Now Gimli knew; the elf had not gone far. Perhaps he was still blinded by smoke. Perhaps he had taken a blow to the head and been disoriented. Either way the elf must have left the path, must have wandered across the little-traveled field. The dwarves were too preoccupied with the wounded and the dying within the mountain; there would have been no one to see him fall suddenly through the earth.

Gimli remembered again those filthy fingernails and wondered with a shiver how long the elf struggled before succumbing.

Such an ignominious fate, for one so revered. Many of the older dwarves treated the story of the Mad Elf as an aberration; a fluke of nature, never to be explained. Elves and dwarves were not friends, and no single act of heroism could change that. It was like a lightning strike; unpredictable and unreliable, even if it had been of use in a singular incident. Certainly no one had expected for some time now to actually _find_ the elf; and especially not like this….

Gimli was next to the elf now, staring down at him. The fire had burned low while he thought, and it reflected in amber glitters onto smooth skin and golden hair. Gimli’s thoughts shifted, abruptly, onto colors. His king intended to honor the elf. And yet, Gimli could not quite see a wood elf arrayed in gold and jewels. In every story he’d heard they were wild and fey, closer to beasts than to people.

With one exception. The Elvenking, every dwarf knew, coveted gold and jewels…and yet Gimli had to wonder why such a king would make no effort to ally with his dwarven neighbors who made their living mining from the earth. This was a thought he had kept to himself, but now it could not be ignored. Their gift must do justice to the enormity of their debt, no matter what old and grumbling dwarves had to say about it. The wood elves would come, and although Gimli had never spoken to them before, he was sure they wouldn’t hesitate to make their feelings known. The casket _must_ appeal to elven sensibilities.

What were elven sensibilities.

Gimli looked over the elf as if the answer was hidden somewhere in the too-thin form. He turned away to examine the remains of the clothing, rather at a loss. It must have been green and brown once, he thought, and that matched with what he remembered of the wood elves he’d seen before. They dressed to blend in with the woods in which they lived. Gimli fingered the material gently, laying it out and studying the cut, the faded patterns.

Once or twice he roused himself and stoked the fire. Time passed, and gradually a plan began to form.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The next month was chaotic. The news of the elf’s return had spread like wildfire. It seemed everyone, from the youngest child to the oldest grandmother, was caught up in excitement. Gimli found himself the uncomfortable target of much attention. No one seemed quite certain whether or not it was a good thing that the elf had been found, particularly if it meant that more elves would soon be coming to the mountain. Even worse was the shock of his death; no dwarf had ever expected to learn they had outlived an elf. No one knew what to think of that either. But it seemed everyone had a different idea about what his funeral regalia ought to look like. Gimli soon learned to keep his head down and mouth shut as he went about his business.

Even with all the furor, Gimli soon fell into a routine. His regular duties had been suspended and so his progress proceeded quickly. Every day he'd wake up, say hello to the elf, then go to the Great Hall for breakfast. Meals were suddenly his only source of socialization, and so Gimli would take his time. He was met with some curiosity, especially in the beginning, but his friends were a levelheaded sort and soon talk turned back to more mundane topics. Gimli thought briefly they could help him think through his design ideas, but quickly learned better. To avoid being buried under an avalanche of contradicting suggestions he changed his questions merely to inquiries of smithing processes and how to achieve a particular result. Many rousing arguments were cheerfully conducted around Gimli as he ate.

The craft dwarves assigned to his team humbled Gimli with their expertise. For all that he was their leader, he was by far the least experienced and qualified dwarf there. It was a great honor. He was completely unprepared.

There wasn’t time to adjust, wasn’t time to build rapport, but Gimli did his best. He respected his team, and he thought maybe they respected him – even if they didn’t understand his vision. “It’s too elvish,” was a constant grumbled complaint. Gimli never answered it. He didn’t have to. The nature of their assignment was clear.

Most of the work was done by others, but Gimli insisted on building one particular piece himself. He never said so aloud, but he considered it his own personal tribute; a thank you to the elf for his sacrifice. He had to bring in bushels of flowers to use as reference. An expensive venture, but one that he could afford. The weeks flew by in a feverish haze, and all too soon the deadline arrived.

The final touches were added. Every piece was assembled. All was ready. Gimli personally informed the king and escorted him to inspect their work. After an excruciating period, Thorin declared it satisfactory. With a sudden rush of cold, Gimli realized what that meant.

It was time to inform the elves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how some authors (coughandmoviedirectorscough) will insert Legolas into the Hobbit in a major role for no reason? Yeah, that really distracts from the point of the Hobbit, doesn’t it. Some of them even have him slay the dragon! That’s just cringe. Everyone knows that Bard kills Smaug. There’s just no good reason to mess around with that.
> 
> …okay in my defense 1. There’s a plot driven reason for it and 2. This is fanfiction and therefore, by its very nature, self-indulgent.
> 
> Feel free to laugh at me tho. I know I am. XD


	4. Thorin's Memory

It was time to inform the elves. Thorin made this declaration and then retreated to his rooms, Frerin and Dís at his heels. Dwarves moved hastily out of their way. Thorin barely noticed. He was already concentrating on the problem at hand.

The three siblings swept into an empty conference room, Frerin stopping to give instructions to their guards to keep them from being disturbed before closing the door. Dís was already settling into her seat. Behind closed doors the three of them spoke and acted as equals, although Thorin, as King, would have the final say.

“The problem, as I see it, is two-fold.” Thorin did not bother with equivocation. At other times he was prone to relish in stately speech craft, but not now. Outside of that room he was King; implacable. Unmovable. But inside the room, with only his sister and brother, Thorin allowed himself his disquiet. “Not once, in all my years as King, have I sent so much as a missive to the Greenwood. And likewise the Elvenking has kept his peace.” For a moment he hesitated, thought how to phrase his thoughts. Frerin and Dís waited; he with calm patience, she with a fire in her eyes. “…there never was a channel established for communication to the elves. And neither do I know what any missive ought to say. We do not even know his name.”

He did not specify whose name he meant. He did not have to. Frerin nodded thoughtfully, but Dís kept her eyes on Thorin. “What’s the other part of the problem?”

Thorin made a helpless, un-kinglike gesture. “How do dwarves honor an elf? For we must. So I have committed Erebor now. But I would not see us taken advantage of by that Jewel-Thief.”

That last he nearly spat out. It was a term of much offense to dwarves, and all there knew he meant it for the Elvenking. Every dwarf knew of that long-ago betrayal. None would trust such an elf near their riches. Many did not trust _any_ elf, just to be sure.

“It is a difficult position, for certain.” Dís spoke slowly, measuring every word. With the firelight flickering across her proud face she looked every bit as regal as her brother the king. “And one which you chose over a month ago. Why do you honor the elf so?”

It was not a challenge, and so Thorin did not treat it as one. He took his time with the answer, thinking. In his mind’s eye he saw again the great hall, darkened with ash and illuminated with dragon fire. The great Worm, roaring in delight. Dwarves running, screaming, fighting, falling…his own brother’s wide eyes, looking out from under a too-big helmet….

As if conjured by his thoughts he could feel it again. The choking smoke, thick and searing within his lungs. The sweat dripping into his eyes. That awful, crowing laughter. The dragon had taken off, then, to circle above Laketown and rain destruction down on the poor humans there. Thorin had felt sympathy for them, for their thatched wooden houses, but it was only a passing feeling, drowned in more immediate concerns. They had to evacuate the mountain. _Now._

Thorin’s father, the king, was already dead. Burned in the initial attack. Thorin gave the order.

Everywhere it was chaos. Great wailing and choking gasps filled Thorin’s ears. He was trying to coordinate, to direct people out – they had no time, no time at all –

_“Leave it!”_ he screamed; the order his father could never have given, mad as he’d been. _“There’s no time – leave the gold, get out, get out – !”_ They did not even have time for food, for supplies. Already the dragon was wheeling back to the mountain, and Thorin felt the dread and horror fill his body as he watched that great shape grow yet larger. It was as he was looking around for his brother, for his sister, for a way out that he heard it. “No!” The word wasn’t strange, but the tone was incongruous somehow. A cry of shock and confusion, not despair. Thorin couldn’t help it; he looked.

It was one of his father's advisors who had spoken. Thorin followed her gaze and saw an _elf._ Standing perhaps thirty yards off, staring at the great beast. For a moment, it seemed as stricken as they. Then it readied its bow, but did not fire.

Thorin had never before seen an elf afraid. He held onto that thought to avoid wondering what in Aulë’s forge it was _doing_. It was hardly the best time for a visit! And why had it come out of the woods? Strange. Suspicious. But there wasn’t time.

Already Smaug’s roars deafened them all again. As if in slow motion Thorin finally caught sight of Frerin – saw him below the dragon – those great claws descending – wisps of flame already trailing from that maw – then the beast shrieked and jerked and missed, Frerin ducking out of the way.

There was an arrow sticking out of the dragon’s right eye. Thorin noted it briefly, hastily. The great hall was no less dangerous now, with the dragon screaming and flailing its mighty limbs, and he had to move fast to avoid death. The next few minutes were chaotic.

At one point Thorin ended up close enough to look up at the elf. It wasn’t very tall, for an elf, and his head was level with its shoulder. This close he could see the whites of its eyes. The elf was so terrified that Thorin, even in the midst of that awful battlefield, was taken aback. It was trembling, he saw, and tears were periodically spilling only to evaporate in the stifling heat.

The dragon stopped throwing flames everywhere. Their axes were no threat to its scales, and he seemed to be looking for something. Later Thorin would realize he was searching for the one who had shot his eye.

The elf cried out, a sound of surprise and hope so strange in the grim surroundings that Thorin glanced over. He saw the gleam of a knife in the elf’s hand. A spout of flame bare feet above its head. Yellow hair turned molten gold and amber under the light, snapping out like a pennant. The elf stabbed his knife into the dragon, only – it did not glance off. Thorin watched in disbelief as the elf pierced Smaug, drove its knife in to the hilt and then yet further. Smaug yelled and thrashed and stone broke and fire spread. Thorin finally got clear, but did not leave, not yet. He waited and he watched, heart beating fast in his throat.

Smaug roared and reared up, leathery wings furling and unfurling in his death throes. He tried to scorch them all but couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The flames sputtered and died. The movements grew weaker.

But the dragon wasn’t dead yet. Thorin could barely breathe but he kept his focus. That giant scaled head drooped lower. Smaug seemed disoriented, furious but distant. His head slipped lower still, then finally dropped.

Thorin stepped forward and flung his axe into Smaug’s other eye. The dragon jerked, then lay still. Thorin stared at it.

Ash was still falling like snow. It was almost the only movement. The moment felt almost like a dream. The great struggle, the fire on the trees, burning dwarven flesh…the horror and fear and terror, cut so suddenly short.

Thorin turned his head suddenly, searching. Picking itself up carefully from the ground was the elf. That gleaming golden hair was rendered grey by the ash and dirt it had rolled in. Thorin saw it looking at Smaug, though he couldn’t make out the expression. Again, the thought came to him; _What is an elf doing here?_ It would have had to have been close to the mountain even before Smaug’s attack, and the wood elves had never wandered so near.

Suspicion rose again, but it was easily pushed aside. Probably it was an outcast, or a lone traveler. Regardless, there were more important things to see to…because he was _king._ He was king, and – and Erebor had been attacked. And burnt. How many dead….

The elf was struggling to its feet. Thorin watched without really seeing, trying to think, trying to swallow his grief, trying to plan. He saw the elf’s legs give out, saw it collapse and stagger up again. It was looking all around itself, as if confused. After a moment it started making its way to Thorin – no, to the archway behind him. He stared at the elf. It barely seemed to notice him. That smooth face was contorted, and gasping moans spilled from its lips. Those shoulders hitched with the force of it, tears trickling from tormented eyes. Thorin blinked. The thought dawned, inescapable: _This elf is mad._

His suspicions dimmed. He felt something not unlike sympathy, and even a strange sort of respect. He’d heard of this before; warriors who had fought too long and too hard, who lost themselves to the gruesome battles they could never forget. Such a person was a threat, for they would strike at the phantasms in their mind and hit living flesh, but they were also worthy of a warrior’s honors.

With this in mind, Thorin moved carefully to stay well clear of the elf as it passed. Unexpectedly, its head turned to follow the movement. For a shivering instant, Thorin and the elf looked at one another. Thorin saw recognition bloom. Then the elf nodded to Thorin, one hand pressed to its heart, and he realized even as he automatically mirrored the gesture that he was wrong. The elf _was_ battle-worn, but it wasn’t quite mad enough not to recognize where it was and who it was with.

Thorin watched the elf weave towards the entrance to the mountain. Dwarves turned to mark its passing, but none interfered. The last Thorin saw before he turned away was the ash-muted gold of the elf's smooth hair glowing beneath the torchlight.

Now he looked at Dís and tried to put his thoughts into words. “…It is not…fallacious…to call him the Mad Elf.”

Thorin paused. Frerin and Dís watched him patiently. “Not for lack of reason, as I know some like to believe. But he was capable of strategy and…when he looked at me, he saw me.” Thorin tilted his head. “It is a popular theory that the elf was so battle worn that he knew not where he was nor whom he fought alongside. But such a thought is only a pretty delusion. He was mad, aye, and I hope I never know what wound rendered him so. But he fought with honor, and for the sake of dwarves. I would not have this forgotten.”

Dís had dropped her gaze as he spoke, something he knew helped her listen clearer. Now she looked up again, eyes thoughtful but steady. “And yet,” she countered, “he is but an exile. Why should we give leverage to the Elvenking? This elf may have been his, but no longer.”

“He might not be,” Frerin interjected. This was a well-worn argument between them. “There are monsters in the Dark Woods, he might have been separated by accident. Just because he was…” his face scrunched up a little bit as he tried to think of a diplomatic way to phrase it, “… _disheveled,_ doesn’t mean he was an outcast!”

Dís didn’t look convinced. She’d had the elf pegged for an exile since the moment she’d seen him. “Let him rest in splendor here,” she said. “There is no higher honor. Lay him to rest in our own catacombs. We do not need to concern the Elvenking.”

“It is said that wood elves wither and die away from the sky and sun. They are not strong enough to withstand the embrace of stone, and so there are no elvish settlements underground.” Thorin reminded them. “What honors a dwarf may not honor an elf.”

“Oh.” Frerin blinked. “You need to talk to the elves to make sure you get it right.” He frowned. “That _does_ leave us open to exploitation.”

Thorin splayed his hands wordlessly. He did not regret his actions, but it was true that he was now in a difficult position because of them.

Dís folded her arms and sat back. “It will have to be carefully done, but…I wonder if we could use the elf’s state against their king, if it comes down to it. They may lay claim to him, and demand recompense from us for his sacrifice, but it is still true that he came to us like an exile. Can they prove he was not? I do not think so.”

“Neither can we prove that he was,” Thorin said. “But it is not a bad idea.”

Frerin looked cautious. “If he wasn’t an exile, they must have wondered why he disappeared. They will be sorry to hear what became of him.”

“And sorrow can turn to anger,” Thorin nodded thoughtfully. “We must be careful. I do not intend to lead us into war.”

“That isn’t what I meant!” Frerin groaned in frustration. “I _meant,_ they might not even care about us, _or_ our gold. Not right after learning of the death of a friend. Or a family member.”

Dís was giving Frerin a patient look which spoke volumes of her skepticism. Thorin…also didn’t believe it.

“His family may mourn,” he said. “But his king? No. He will be pragmatic.”

“Then we,” said Dís, “must also be pragmatic.”

The torches burned long that night as plans were discussed, and a letter was written and rewritten. By morning’s light the royal siblings had come to an agreement, and soon after Dís and a retinue of dwarves set out for Mirkwood to deliver a message for the Elvenking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter after next is called 'The Elvenking.' That'll be fun.
> 
> As always, I'm open to constructive criticism. <3


	5. A Series of Interludes

It was coming on to noontime and what clouds still lingered were white, fluffy, ineffectual things. Tufrig squinted through the glare, irritated. She blew a strand of hair out of her mouth and stumped further along the mountainside. Everyone had had the same idea, and the land immediately outside Erebor was already picked clean. Even halfway down the path to Laketown, she was having trouble finding her quarry. It would be easier if she dared leave the path, but Glóinul had been lucky to discover a sinkhole without falling in. Tufrig knew better than to count on luck.

If only it wasn’t so _bright_ out.

Tufrig turned a corner and stopped. Down the mountain and across the glittering lake she knew was Laketown, even if it wasn’t visible through the glare. She set her hands on her hips, disgruntled. Maybe it would be better to cross the water. Or even just go down to the bank. From previous excursions she knew there would be flowers there.

But her tunic was already sticking to her back with sweat, and she’d been out of her forge too long already. There had to be some around here _somewhere._

Tufrig trudged to the edge of the path and peered around. The sun dazzled her eyes and fragmented colors to dance across her vision, but she could still see. If she squinted. More or less.

_There!_

Waving gently in the wind, orange and white and yellow. Tufrig drew her pocketknife and flicked it open.

She cut much more than she had planned. The flowers might be distinct from the grasses around around them, but their stems weren’t, and Tufrig ended up holding rather more green than she’d intended. But elves liked green, so perhaps it was alright. Tufrig arranged her flowers so they wouldn’t get crushed on the way back up the mountain and hurried back. If the line wasn’t too bad, she ought to be able to get in a good few hours in her forge before dinnertime.

Inside the (cooler, dimmer, lovelier) mountain, Tufrig made her way to the Elf Room. Most dwarves were just finishing lunch, and so the line was only about twenty dwarrows long. Still, Tufrig shifted with impatience. In the low light she could see her harvest better and set about picking out any unsightly weeds. She’d even brought back a bramble! Well, that wouldn’t do. Tufrig tucked the refuse into the crook of one elbow. The rest she gathered into a nice bouquet. Filching a ribbon from one of her braids, she tied it off with a complicated, lattice-work knot. By the time she finished it was her turn, for the line was fast moving.

Tufrid paid no mind to the guards in the room. They were only there to ensure no one touched the elf, something which she had no intention of doing.

The room was one of the few in Erebor set against an outside wall, and windows set with stained glass let filtered light through to illuminate the elf. He lay as if in repose, hands crossed over the knife which had slain the dragon Smaug. Tufrid regarded it with no little awe. It had been on display in Erebor before, but it was something else to see it in the hands of its owner.

The elf was surrounded by flowers. They were tucked around him and spilled over onto the floor. Silvery leaves and violet blooms were most common, but there were some red, white, and yellow flowers dotted here and there. Some had notes attached. Tufrid was careful to avoid looking at any of those as she set her own gift down.

She stepped away, offering one final, reverent bow. As she rose, she saw the elf limned in golden light, which fell on flowers around him as equally fair. For a moment he seemed not like an elf at all, nor any other creature, but like a continuation of flowers and foliage. The knife seemed a petal under the folded leaves of his hands for a single wavering instant, and then by some flicker of light his chest seemed to rise slightly, breaking the illusion. Tufrid tucked her head down and walked away quickly.

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Dís was _not_ lost. She was still on the path. Still with her retinue. Everything was _fine._

It was just…eerie. Moss softened every footstep so that Dís had developed a crick in her neck from compulsively checking to make sure they hadn’t lost anyone. Hardly any light filtered through the trees, and what did was weak and wan. She had foreseen this, and so about half their company had brought torches. But not only was the flickering light swallowed by the oppressive darkness of their surroundings, but it seemed to summon every creature for leagues around. Dís had ordered the torches extinguished within an hour, hoping to stave off attack from the dozens and dozens of pale eyes shining out from between the trees.

Now they trooped on in watchful silence, searching for a kingdom that Dís was beginning to suspect might not exist.

Erebor had beautiful gates and a long, well-maintained path up to them. Mirkwood, as an important trading partner with humans and, Dís had heard, other elves, should have had something similar. It wasn’t as if elves were incapable of such things; Rivendell was known for its graceful architecture, and there were many stories of long-gone elven cities.

So _why_ had they been walking for hours in the gloom, on a mossy path without a trace of stone or evidence of a crafter’s hands _anywhere?_ Was this the wrong path? Had the men Dís had spoken to misled her? Or perhaps…

There seemed something malevolent about it. To be hemmed in as if in a tunnel, but to be so unsafe; it was an experience as foreign as it was repugnant. Uneasiness trickled down Dís’ spine and pooled in her belly. For a single instant she believed the elves were dead, or else…no longer elves. What free and sentient creature would choose to live in a place like this? Hemmed in with vicious creatures, kept from earth and stone – or sun and sky, if they be an elf – it would drive anyone _mad._

But the Rivendell people still traded with Mirkwood elves. As a matter of fact, they had been pulling great barrels of product out of the river when the dwarves had passed by. So they had to still be here…somewhere.

Dís eyed the dark woods suspiciously. Try as she might she could see no elven form in the gloom. This did not, however, mean that there weren’t any.

They’d been walking for over two hours already, she’d guess. Well. It’d hardly be prudent to wander in so deep they lost their way – or better yet, traversed the whole woods! She’d give it another hour before giving up and heading home. Thorin couldn’t fault her for that. She’d even (and this, she thought, was _really_ generous) start a conversation with her aide about the MESSAGE they were bringing to the MIRKWOOD ELVES, just in case there really were some nearby listening. Dís snorted at the thought, darkly amused. Maybe that’s what the long ears were for; eavesdropping! She wouldn’t be surprised.

The sooner this fool’s errand was done, the sooner they could head back to Erebor. Dís doubted their message would get delivered. In fact, she rather hoped it didn’t. It’d make everything so much simpler. Smaug-killer could be laid to rest in honor in the Erebor tombs, and that would be the end of that. She’d never say so, but the whole thing was really quite embarrassing. Not only being saved by an elf, but an exile; and mad on top of that. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it. She did. But why linger?

No, the sooner this whole silly business was over, the better.

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It felt good to be doing proper work again. More relaxing than a sabbatical, even. Technically Gimli had been doing this sort of thing all month, but – no. That didn’t count. It was true that all smithing, no matter how physically intense, required a craftsman’s delicacy. But the vines and flowers he’d incorporated into the casket were a different sort of fiddly. Dwarven designs may be complex, but they had the good manners to also be geometric. Elf styles were…not.

It felt cleansing, somehow, to return to the familiar. A welcome reminder of how solid his skills were, after a month of guessing in the dark.

And yet…Gimli nearly missed working on the casket. He never had been the sort to shy from a challenge, and the curving lines with which he had decorated it had been that and more. Despite his return to normal work, ideas continued to spark. If he had to a chance to do it all again – well. Alright. He’d lose his mind. Too undwarven, by far! Gimli laughed to himself as he worked. No, he only _almost_ wanted to keep experimenting. It was a comfort to return to the old familiar ways of doing things.

And if there was something missing, if he missed the puzzle of it all and the learning of new things, well. The sparkle of new ideas would fade soon enough. Gimli had plenty of time now to resettle himself. The thing was over and done with, or it would be just as soon as the lady Dís returned.

With that comforting notion, Gimli threw himself into his work with renewed vigor, and thought on the matter no more.

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Tauriel tracked her quarry through the shifting foliage. A small party of dwarves, more richly dressed and with far fewer supplies than the merchants who would occasionally venture through.

They were…quite loud.

Tauriel watched their leader – a grumpy-faced dwarf prone to peering suspiciously at trees – and considered. Normally she would keep away from anyone brave enough to travel through the once-great Greenwood. It was only polite. But then, she doubted these dwarves would notice a little rudeness. They struck her as exceptionally ill-mannered, with their glowering looks and tromping feet and loud voices.

She wondered what they were doing, taking such fine clothes into the dim, damp forest. Perhaps they were ill? Tauriel had heard that some mortal maladies affected the mind. She lifted her scarf around her nose and mouth, just in case.

Perhaps she ought to tell her king. Tauriel wavered, unsure. It was surpassing foolish to venture into the Greenwood without proper supplies. That alone marked them as something other than simple travelers. And yet she did not wish to trouble the king over nothing. He was much grieved since the loss of his son. Perhaps…yes. It would be better to leave the strangers be. She began to creep backwards on her branch.

“HOW MUCH FURTHER DO YOU THINK THE ELVES ARE?”

Tauriel startled and nearly fell out of her tree. A most undignified sound came involuntarily out of her, somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.

“I couldn’t say, my liege. I have never traveled this way before.”

The second voice was not as loud, but no less grating. Tauriel’s jaw was tense enough to hurt. She felt the sudden need to massage her temples.

“IT WOULD BE A SHAME IF WE CANNOT FIND THEM TO DELIVER THE KING’S MESSAGE. WE’VE BEEN WALKING HOURS ALREADY…I FEAR WE MUST TURN BACK SOON OR RISK BEING TRAPPED IN THE FOREST OVERNIGHT.”

It occurred to Tauriel that the dwarf might be raising his voice on purpose, for the benefit of anyone close enough to hear. This thought did not alleviate her headache, and so she did not allow it to alleviate her annoyance either.

At least now she had a legitimate reason to speak with the king.

…even if her ears were still ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please notice that Kili is not a tagged character and neither is Kili/Tauriel a tagged ship. And full disclosure; Tauriel is Tauriel in name only. I haven’t seen the Hobbit movies and I am using her so that I don’t have to make up any more wood elves than I have to.
> 
> On a less serious note; lol Gimli thinks this’ll be over soon. Yeah, you hold on to that thought honey.


	6. The Elvenking

The Elf King wore clothes of emerald and gold; the color, not the precious metal. He wore no crown but a circlet of flowers. His subjects, with white and green gemstones glinting at belt and neck, were dressed better than he.

Dís didn’t know what to make of him. It had taken all her diplomatic skill not to react when he came into view. For a moment she’d thought he wasn’t the king at all. Then she’d wondered, rather wildly, if he’d just woken up and hadn’t bothered to change before receiving them. But that wouldn’t explain the flowers _._

Dís was beginning to suspect, rather uncomfortably, that young Gimli Glóinul was right about wood elf… _priorities_.

The thought of a people who liked _flowers_ (delicate, ephemeral) more than precious metals (sturdy, beautiful, capable of being passed down through generations) was simply…too strange to bear. It was completely irrational. Dís kept her face smooth through long practice as she explained their purpose to the king and resolved to think about it all _later._

For his part, King Thranduil had received them graciously, if curiously. He listened to Dís patiently at first. Gradually his face became blanker and blanker. When she at last got to the point of needing his help to identify the dead elf, his expression contorted for an instant before smoothing over once more. Dís faltered, her words dropping away.

There was something brittle to the king as he looked at her. As if the slightest touch would shatter him – or send him into a fury. Dís refused to let on how unnerved she was.

“An elf of the Greenwood,” he croaked. “How can you be sure?”

An alarm was going off in the back of Dís’ mind. Something was wrong here. For a few seconds she considered backing down. ‘ _Well, he was wearing green, but come to think of it he looked more like a Rivendell elf. So sorry to bother you, we’ll just be going now!’_

Yeah, she couldn’t see that going over well. But she’d told Thorin, hadn’t she, that the elf was probably an exile? How much must the Elf King hate him to be reacting so strangely to his death? Sure, he hadn’t lost control yet, but she could practically _feel_ the tension. Any wrong move could bring a load of trouble down on their heads…

Dís made a careful, courtly gesture. “He was dressed in your kingdom’s colors and style, oh King.” She paused, heart pounding in her ears. Perhaps… “He was long dead when we found him. If–”

She was interrupted by a low sound from the king. His hand was pressed to his mouth and his eyes were closed. Dís paused, but when nothing more was forthcoming, continued.

“…If your highness is preoccupied with more important matters, my King has offered to use our resources to see him buried.” _Please don’t ask why, please don’t ask why –_ “We offer this as a small neighborly gesture. Your highness need not send your own people out of your great forest if you do not wish. I can assure you that we shall see the thing done, to whatever specifications you require.” She bowed, but only shallowly, as befit her position as advisor and as the king’s sister.

“What does he look like?” King Thranduil asked quietly. His face was turned towards her, but Dís had the uncomfortable sensation of being looked _through_. “Not his clothing. His – his hair and face. Describe him to me.”

Dís drew on her long years of experience at court, trying not to show how much this question flustered her. She had not looked closely at the elf in question and felt rather like an unprepared student called on by the teacher. “He has yellow hair.” This was, in truth, the extent of her recollection. Dís racked her brains desperately for more. “I believe he would be…shorter than you.” A flash of inspiration. “He fought with a bow and two long knives.”

The king turned his face away from her. Dís saw him swallow, saw him tremble. She had a sudden flash of doubt. What kind of elf was Smaug-killer, really? Exiles were usually cast out for a good reason. His crimes must truly be terrible for the mere thought of him to elicit such a reaction.

Then Thranduil turned suddenly back to them. He was smiling now, a gracious, courtly kind of smile. “Thank you for informing us. Your king’s generosity will not be soon forgotten.” He made an elegant sort of gesture, and Dís wondered if she was supposed to know how to answer it. “You must be tired after your journey. My people will show you to rooms where you can rest and recover your strength. Refreshments will be provided shortly. Do let us know if there is aught you require. After your needs have been met, we will see you off with an escort.” Here his smile turned thin and bitter. “They will name the elf, if he is one of ours.”

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Thranduil maintained his poise until after the dwarves had filed out again. He felt distant somehow, as if nothing was real. Almost it seemed as if he was standing a little outside of his own body. And yet, he could feel something heavy and clawing and awful clawing its way up his throat.

He became gradually aware that Tauriel had not left, that she was standing at a respectful distance, watching him. He looked at her and saw a mirror of his own grief. In that moment he could not have said whether it was better or worse to be so understood.

“My king,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes.

“It might not be him,” Thranduil’s voice wavered but did not break. “Tauriel. It might…”

Tauriel did not speak. He looked at her, stricken, but her face was downturned.

“ _Tauriel._ ” He spoke quietly, for it seemed an unbearable strain to raise his voice. “ _It might not be –_ he is too canny.” His face hurt. There was something wrong with his sternum, aching and sharp all at once.

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. For that was the awful truth of it. For many years they had wondered what had become of their wayward prince and speculated as to the cause of his sudden departure. The idea that he might be dead was not a new one. And yet, that did not make it any easier to face the possibility now.

Tauriel came closer, and Thranduil held out his hands to her. She clasped his forearms and stared beseechingly at him. Tears striped both their faces now, welling up and spilling over freely. “I don’t – _know,_ but I shall – I shall see to it. My king. And we – we will do what is proper.”

This was, perhaps, a strange way to say _I will go with the dwarves, identify the body, and bring him back here to be buried if it is indeed Legolas,_ but the king and his captain knew each other so well that he understood perfectly.

The king shook his head. “No,” he said blankly. “No, I must go. He is my son.”

Tauriel clung to his arms even as he clung to hers, shaking her head, shuddering breaths shaking her body. “ _You cannot go._ ”

Through blurry eyes she thought she saw a flash of anger darken his brow, but then it was gone. “I must go,” he repeated. “It is my son.”

Without letting go, Tauriel pushed him. Not hard – he barely even rocked back – but now he was looking at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I love him too.” She was crying now, really crying, and so was he. “You can’t leave the Greenwood. _You are our greatest king._ You’re – you’re the sunlight,”

He was shaking his head. “Laegolas – Laegolas –”

“ _You_ are the sunlight. You keep us safe from the Shadow. How – how shall you go to the mountain? How shall the dwarves understand? You can’t – you can’t…” Tauriel tried to stop, to breathe. She had to explain. She had to make him understand. It was so important. “ _Please._ My king. If it is him, will you cry under the mountain? Shall you be so _weak?_ ”

He pulled her into an embrace then, for he knew by _weak_ she truly meant _vulnerable_. Dwarves may not be their enemies, but neither were they friends. Thranduil did not try to argue, even as anger and denial made their way into the wordless sounds he made.

Into his ear Tauriel continued her plea. “We cannot stand without you. We do not yet know how. Let me go. I – I would not let outsiders see the pain of my king.”

For some time longer they remained, locked in embrace. But all too soon the King drew away and composed himself. Dwarves were mortal and had not the patience of elves. It would not do to displease them now, when they might – _might –_ be about to end the mystery of Legolas’ whereabouts. The conclusion may be bitter, may be unspeakable, but it was better to _know._

He saw them off with a straight back and dry eyes. Tauriel, his general, his dear friend, his departed wife’s closest confidant, led the small contingent of elves who were to accompany the dwarves back to the mountain. Wood elves did not stand on much ceremony, but no one might have guessed that from their formal farewell. When they bowed deeply to their king, the dwarves saw only the expected gesture of respect and did not understand it was meant rather as a form of support; the only one the elves felt comfortable expressing in front of outsiders. Thranduil inclined his head in return, and then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is not a mistake that Thranduil calls Legolas 'Laegolas.' It is the Sindarin version of his name; this will probably be touched on again later, but I thought I ought to clarify here. Thranduil usually calls his son Legolas, excepting when he is in trouble, but in his grief he reverts back to his native Sindarin for a moment.
> 
> So Thranduil really did hold back Sauron’s darkness without a ring for…2000 years??? Is that right? And kept his people safe and helped them prosper despite the constant threat? I mean. Can you imagine how his people would have loved him?
> 
> Anyway, so we're about halfway through this fic and we've reached the end of the chapters I had prepared. So I don't know what my updating schedule will be. I am going to write it, I'm sure of that. I wasn't lying at the start when I said I was writing this to reteach myself certain skills. And once it's written probably I'll post it. So if you have interest in seeing this weird, /weird/ story done, I suggest subscribing so you'll get the notifications. Maybe drop a comment if there was something you particularly enjoyed or are curious about, or if you see something that could use improvement. I absolutely take constructive criticism.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and have a nice day. :)


	7. Elves in Erebor

By the time word reached Thorin of Dís’ return, the entire mountain was already abuzz. Dwarves were gathered in the entranceway and lining the hallways. Thorin could feel his hope for a quiet proceeding slipping away like water down a drain.

He kept the greetings short to try to limit the spectacle. The elves didn’t seem to notice. Their leader, a tall elf with brown skin and auburn hair who introduced herself as Tauriel, seemed particularly keen to get down to business. That suited Thorin right down to the bedrock.

Gimli caught up with them just before they reached the Elf Room. Thorin had sent for him so that any questions the elves might have about how the body was treated might be answered. He gestured brusquely for his young cousin to fall in line, and then they were there. Another signal and the guards opened the doors with a bow and ushered them through.

Tauriel halted as soon as she caught sight of the body. Thorin saw her bloodless face, her trembling jaw, and knew that Smaug-Killer was indeed a wood elf.

She advanced, staring. Her lips moved but no sound emerged. Her entourage followed, but slower. They, too, clearly recognized the body.

In a single moment Tauriel crossed the remaining space to stand by his side. In that whip-flash of movement, Thorin was reminded that elves were hunters. But there was nothing predatory about the look of her just then.

Tauriel cast them a swift, anguished look, and then bent over the body. Thorin saw her hands rise to touch the elf’s face and chest. The line of her back went suddenly still. Her hands moved, but Thorin could not see what she was doing.

She twisted to face them, astonishment and wariness clear on her face. Thorin met her gaze squarely. “What is this?” Tauriel demanded. Her accent had thickened with her emotions. “What did you do?”

Gimli stepped forward respectfully. He glanced first to Thorin, who nodded at him. “I was the one to find and care for his body. I can answer any questions you might have. But I’m afraid I don’t understand – perhaps you could be more specific?”

It was a polite offer, and Thorin wasn’t sure why the elf looked so disturbed by it. She turned back to the body a moment, then gestured her elves to join her. “Look,” she said, and they did. One gasped, and the others made little exclamations. Thorin wasn’t sure if the quiet, rapid-fire words they exchanged then were elvish or just warped beyond recognition by their accents. Whatever they said, it made Tauriel relax a little. She turned back to Gimli.

“You find him? When. Where. How.”

There was a brief pause where Gimli clearly tried to think of a diplomatic way to say ‘buried right outside Erebor.’ The elves were all looking at him unblinkingly, which didn’t help. “I was out walking and I stumbled across him in a hole in the earth. Not very long ago, only as long as it took to make him presentable for viewing.”

Tauriel’s cat-like eyes were narrowed in consideration. “You made him presentable,” she said slowly. Her head tilted to one side. “How?”

Gimli bore up well under her scrutiny. “He was covered in dirt and his clothes had mostly decomposed. I washed him and sent his measurements to our tailors to have something made up.”

Tauriel glanced back, clearly just now registering the clothing wasn’t of elf-make. For the first time she seemed to see the trappings; the intricate coffin, expensive clothes, and exquisitely carved headpiece. When she finally faced the dwarves again her expression was cautious. “I do not understand you,” she said. “You have laid him to rest in splendor. But why? He is not dead.”

As she said this, Thorin realized that her hand had slipped under the corpse’s to hold the hilt of his dagger. A feeling like ice water slid down his spine. He regretted now that ceremonial gesture; it had seemed poetic and appropriate, at the time. Looking at the she-elf’s hand on it, he could only hope she did not realize that its unbent twin was sheathed at the dead elf’s waist.

“It may be difficult for you to come to terms with,” Dís said quietly, nearly gently. “It is never easy to lose someone you care about.”

Tauriel transferred her stare. “He is dying, but he is not dead yet. Surely you must have realized?”

Now the dwarves and elves were all looking at each as if concerned for the other’s sanity. Gimli, as the one who most ought to have realized a thing like that, stepped forward.

“I never had cause to think him alive,” he said. Thorin was impressed by how calm and reasonable he sounded. “Not when I found him, nor when I tended to him. Furthermore, for his clothes to have deteriorated into rags, he must have lain in the earth for many years. Do not elves need to eat and drink?”

Tauriel’s gaze wavered. For a moment Thorin thought that Gimli had broken through her denial. Then she pulled the knife that had slain a dragon out from the coffin and held it up. “Here,” she said. Her voice was not loud but in the sudden deathly silence it rang like a bell. “We do not have to argue when there are ways to know for certain who is right. What is your name?”

Gimli barely hesitated. “Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service.”

The elf motioned him forwards, and both Thorin and Dís came with him. Tauriel didn’t seem to care. “Come close,” she insisted. “Look.”

They watched her hold the knife so that the flat of the blade hovered above the he-elf’s mouth. Moments passed, and then Gimli cried out in amazement.

“The blade is fogging up!”

And it was. Thorin peered at the faint condensation and felt a strange sensation, as if he’d suddenly misplaced a step.

“Yes,” Tauriel laughed, and the other elves did too. They seemed much lighter, as if a great burden had been taken from them. “And now for the second test.”

She took one of the elf’s limp hands in hers and made a small cut just below the wrist with the knife. Thorin set his mouth in distaste at the use of Smaug-bane for such a task, but was much compelled by the thin line of red which sprang forth.

Tauriel threw her head back and laughed. “You see!” she said. “The dead do not bleed. Legolas lives!”

“But then,” Gimli said, half to himself, “Why…What…what ails him?”

The elves heard him, and Tauriel turned serious again. “He may be dying,” she admitted. “I do not know. A blow to the head could cause a coma, perhaps.” Her eyes became shadowed. “Elves _do_ need food and drink, Master Dwarf. I suspect he has gone without all the while. See how thin he is now, compared to me.”

And he was. Elves were such wispy things, particularly in a dwarf’s imagination, and so none of them had noticed before. But next to healthy wood elves it was clear how emaciated he really was.

“What did you call him?” Gimli asked lowly. He was clearly shaken.

“Legolas,” Tauriel returned, at the same somber volume. “Leh-goal-us. It means green leaf, in our language.” And she smiled.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The dwarves had excused themselves politely for a quick recess. Tauriel wondered about their consternation. It was clear that they hadn’t had any idea that Legolas was alive, but as for how this could be, she didn’t know. Surely the lack of rot should have been a clue? It occurred to her then that she’d never seen a dead dwarf. Perhaps decay was slow to claim them…? That didn’t sound right, but Tauriel didn’t know enough about dwarves to think of a better idea.

But it did not matter now. Even in their ignorance, the dwarves had given them an invaluable gift. Legolas had surely suffered from his time away from the Greenwood; his limbs were thin, his high cheekbones made sharp from lack of food, and his once warm brown skin paler than ever she’d seen. And yet, he lived.

Tauriel couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Legolas lived, and was now returned to them. That was more than she’d dared hope for.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_“How could he be alive?”_

Gimli had no words. He couldn’t believe it.

“Sit down, Glóinul.” Dís snapped. “You look about to faint.”

“I will not faint,” he rasped. “I swear on my beard, there never was any indication of life.”

Thorin waved this away. “I was there when he was pulled from the earth,” he rumbled. “I, too, can scarce believe it. Do not concern yourself too much, little cousin. Elves are stranger than ever I could have guessed.”

“I won’t ever believe an elf is dead again unless I see his head separated from his body,” Gimli whispered fervently, glancing over to make sure the elves were still out of earshot. He tried to sound disgusted, but mostly just seemed awestruck.

“A sensible test,” Dís agreed.

“My king brother, my lady sister, distinguished cousin.” Frerin had just arrived. His expressive eyes were creased with concern at the sight of his family huddled together outside the Elf Room, whispering to each other.

“Do not mind the formalities, there is no time for that now.” Thorin pulled his little brother into the circle. “You were right, Frerin. He is no exile.”

Frerin nodded slowly. He still looked worried. “Are we being blamed for his death?”

Dís scoffed. “That would be unfortunate, but straightforward. No, it is worse than that.”

That wasn’t strictly true. A war with the wood elves would be more than _unfortunate,_ and surely worse than their current situation. But that was Dís all over; the more convoluted circumstances became, the grimmer her outlook. She could perform diplomacy quite adequately, but she was at heart an honest, direct sort of person.

Frerin knew this, and so there was a trace of skepticism in his stare. “What is worse than war?”

“He isn’t dead.” Thorin said. Beside him, Gimli sank his head into his hands with a little groan.

Frerin laughed. No one joined in.

“But – Thorin – _that’s impossible._ ”

“Tell that to the elves,” Dís said resentfully. “ _She_ says he’s only _dying._ We’re owed gratitude, for saving him.” She made a sarcastic sort of face to emphasize the pure _nonsense_ of the whole situation.

“Lady Dís is referring to Tauriel,” Gimli volunteered, at Frerin’s look of confusion. “The elven delegation’s leader.” And that the elf had given no title to accompany her name was just one more proof of the oddness of elves.

Frerin looked disturbed, but thoughtful. “Then – how long was he buried? Surely not since Smaug’s defeat.”

There was a little silence as they thought about that.

“The elf was filthy though,” Gimli said. “He turned the bathwater black.”

“He could have had a mishap prior to falling in,” Thorin pointed out. “There was much rain around that time. Mud could have made him look more neglected than in truth.”

“No.” Dís said with an air of regal finality, then remembered who she was talking to. “I mean – it seems unlikely to me. Because – _Tauriel –_ said he was emaciated. Whatever trial he endured has pushed him to the limits of elven endurance. And we never did hear tale of anyone claiming credit for…” her voice lowered, suspicious gaze fixed on the door. “ _The incident._ These elves haven’t mentioned it. Why wouldn’t they, if only to balance the debt they say they owe us?”

This was a good point. It seemed obvious from the elves’ clear fondness for Smaug-killer that if he could have returned to the woods after killing the dragon, he would have. The dwarves all took their time thinking it over, each loathe to accept the idea that anyone, even an elf, could survive for a hundred and seventy-one years buried in the earth. It seemed impossible. But finally, for lack of better options, they grudgingly agreed.

The door opened, and Tauriel stepped out cautiously with another elf following, peering around until she caught sight of them.

“King Under the Mountain,” she said formally. “I request an escort for Avornel to the entrance of Erebor. She carries the news of Legolas’ survival, which is sorely desired in the Greenwood.”

Thorin could think of no reason to deny her, and so Avornel swiftly received her escort. Tauriel asked also for Gimli to stay with them awhile and speak more on how he had come to find Legolas, and all the events thereafter. This, too, was granted. Thorin assigned dwarves to watch over the elves and provide for reasonable needs, and then retreated with his siblings. There was still much to discuss; the oil lamps would burn low for them that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a hot second there Tauriel totally thought the dwarves were playing some kind of sick mind game by pretending Legolas was dead. Ah, misunderstandings.


	8. Awakening

Tauriel seemed loathe to let go of the body – _no, he’s alive_ – of Legolas. _His name is Legolas._ Gimli noted this in the corner of his brain that wasn’t still fuzzy with shock. Even when looking at or speaking to someone else, she kept at least on hand on him. It was as if she thought he would disappear the moment she turned away.

To tell the truth, Gimli had much the same feeling.

The elves had ushered him in and, when chairs were brought, saw to it that he was given the one closest to Tauriel and the casket. Gimli knew this was to facilitate the talks they wanted to have, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit resentful. It was if they were saying, ‘ _Here, come close, take a good look! You who were so foolish as to think him dead; can you see your folly now?’_ And he _couldn’t,_ which made it all the worse. Gimli had restored the body himself, and even as he looked at Legolas laying clean and peaceful in the filtered sunlight he could still see that tragic figure they’d dragged up out of the earth.

“So, Master Dwarf!” Tauriel smiled brightly at him. She seemed almost to glow with happiness. Gimli smiled tightly back. “You found poor Legolas?”

“Aye, Mistress Elf. The field outside the mountain is sometimes prone to sinkholes. I suppose he was crossing it and fell in.”

There were murmurs at that. It was not a happy thought, and Gimli could see how their concern at these long-ago events warred with the relief of seeing their friend still alive in front of them.

Tauriel tilted her head and, with her eyes narrowed in thought, looked every bit as calculating as the elves in dwarven tales. “I wonder why he was outside your mountain to begin with,” she mused. “It seems a strange place for a wood elf.”

Gimli might have taken this as an accusation except for the way she was looking at him. There was something odd in her gaze; not suspicious, but searching…what did she hope to see? Gimli felt off-kilter and slow, which in turn filled him with annoyance. Now he must not only be diplomatic, but canny; and all the while he was dizzied by the sight of Legolas, and the knowledge that he had unknowingly tended not to a corpse but to a living elf.

_Mahal curse it, I undressed and bathed him!_

“Surely you would understand his actions better than I?” Gimli tried, with a charming smile.

Tauriel looked away. She was smiling again, but it seemed false. “Yes, I suppose so. Please, Master Dwarf, tell us what happened once Legolas was found.”

The image of Legolas in Gimli’s bathtub, head tilted back as he saw to his hair, flashed into Gimli’s mind. He wondered uneasily how much care the elves would have for the context of that particular event. And as it had then, the thought again occurred; _What meaning did hair-washing have for elves?_

If only he spoke to dwarves. Even if they were from opposing clans, they would understand. There was a shared language, a shared culture, though the particulars might differ. Dwarves understood necessity and would hold no grudges in this case. Elves? Mahal only knew.

Gimli decided to be as vague as possible. He explained it to Tauriel in broad strokes, saying only that ‘the body was washed’ and then hurrying on to describe the commissioning of the clothing and the building of the casket. Here he hit another stumbling block. How to explain the finery Legolas was surrounded by without betraying the debt created by Smaug’s defeat?

“I built most of the casket myself,” a slight exaggeration, but better than admitting he had headed a whole team dedicated to the project, “It was a challenge, you see. I’ve never worked with such organic shapes. I learned much from it.” This was true. That it implied he’d done it solely for academic purposes was merely a bonus.

“Why are there so many flowers in this room?” this from one of the three other elves. Using Tauriel and Legolas as a benchmark, Gimli thought this one was male. The question seemed only idle curiosity, but Gimli felt his throat close up.

After a breathless moment he said, “Perhaps that is a question better suited for my king.”

If the elf had seemed curious before it was nothing to how he looked now. Gimli kept his face calm with an effort. Thorin would have to be the one to decide how honest to be with the elves. Gimli did not dare make that decision himself.

“Oh,” Tauriel gasped suddenly. She was staring down at Legolas. “His hair.”

The other elves murmured and came close to look. Gimli felt wrong-footed and slow. What was wrong with his hair?

After a few minutes of waiting patiently as the elves made quiet sounds to each other that Gimli wasn’t rightly sure were words, he coughed politely. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “But what is significant about his hair?”

“It’s unbraided,” Tauriel said distractedly. “I didn’t notice at first because of the crown.” Almost as a side note she added, “It’s very beautiful.”

Gimli took a moment to unravel that. It startled him to hear her describe the headpiece as a crown. It was pleasing to know that it appealed to elven taste, since that was what it had been designed to do. And then there was the first thing she’d said; _It’s unbraided._

Gimli cast his thoughts back. For all the time he’d had Legolas’s hair in his hands, washing it and combing out the tangles, it’d never occurred to him that he might be unpicking braids. In fact…the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he hadn’t. There had been tangles aplenty for him to gently unweave, but his fingers had detected no pattern. He told Tauriel this, forgetting in the moment his worries over elven hair rituals, and she looked at him with such sorrow he was taken aback.

But the next moment her smile was back, if smaller than before. “That is alright,” she said in the manner of one who knew it was not but was determined to make it so. “I am a family friend. I can put his braids in.”

One of the other elves – a female with brown skin and hair – gasped. A stream of words tumbled from her lips, all in a strange language. Tauriel answered patiently at first, but soon grew irritated.

“Enough!” she said. “I am in charge here in this place, and I say it is more important to see him braided. I will take criticism from my king or from Legolas himself, and no others!”

This seemed to settle the matter, but the elves were clearly unhappy. Tauriel frowned at them. Her eyes alit on Gimli, and she sat up a little straighter, a faint blush staining her cheeks. He wondered if she’d forgotten he was there. “Master Dwarf,” she said crisply, even as she did not quite meet his eyes. “You have held Legolas in your care ere long. Will you help me care for him now?”

Gimli bowed, a little uncertainly. “I am at your service, Mistress Elf.”

“Excellent. I only need you to hold him up, and I will take care of the rest.”

This sounded simple enough, even with the studied indifference of the other elves making Gimli feel vaguely embarrassed in some way he couldn’t explain. Tauriel was all business, and swiftly had everything arranged to her liking. With a growing feeling of uneasiness, Gimli climbed into the casket, and then had to sit more or less in Legolas’s lap as Tauriel helped lift Legolas from his prone position. Then Gimli was to hold him in an embrace, keeping the body upright so that Tauriel could deal with the hair.

Gimli kept his face tucked against the side of the elf’s head to try to hide his burning cheeks. It was all horrendously awkward. He was afraid of anyone walking in, which was rational. He was even more afraid that Legolas would pick this moment to wake, which was less rational. And yet, Gimli was overcome with the feeling that he was doing something terribly improper, and at any moment he would surely be reprimanded sharply for it.

It didn’t take long for Gimli to realize he could feel Legolas’s body move slightly as he breathed, and even the faint flutter of his breath on Gimli’s collarbone. This was almost unbearable. It made him feel quite stupid for ever having believed the elf dead, which was ridiculous. He remembered what he’d looked like, fresh from the earth! No sane person could have guessed it was anything but a corpse.

But this did not help the burning in his cheeks.

The moment Tauriel announced herself done, Gimli was easing Legolas back down. Tauriel helped, and soon Gimli was back on the ground. Before he could return to his chair, the she-elf held up the flower crown.

“Do you know who made this?” she asked.

“I did,” Gimli admitted. Tauriel seemed much taken with it, and it was flattering to see her twist and turn it to see how the light made it shimmer.

“It seems a kingly gift,” she said, glancing slantwise at him.

“I will take that as a compliment of my skill.”

Tauriel nodded slowly and settled the circlet back onto Legolas’s head. “I especially like how it is designed to be comfortable to wear when laying down,” she murmured. “It strikes me as uncommonly kind to do such a thing for one you believed to be beyond the reach of pain.”

That hadn’t quite been Gimli’s thought when he designed it, but he accepted the compliment graciously nonetheless.

The male elf who had asked about the flowers earlier spouted a cresting flow of gibberish.

Tauriel interrupted. “Speak in Westron, Himel.”

“We do not need to wait for healers,” Himel said. “Can not we ask for broth? I cannot stand to look at him like this.”

Tauriel was still for a moment. Then she was down off the casket and halfway across the room before Gimli could blink. Suddenly she spun back around and called out, “Please watch over Legolas for me, as you did before we came here. I only have some questions to ask.”

Her accent had thickened, and by the time Gimli had unraveled what she’d said she was slipping out the door. He could hear her lilting voice and the lower register of the dwarves Thorin had left posted outside.

The three other elves drifted towards the door. The brown haired she-elf was darting him cautious little glances but didn’t seem particularly worried.

Feeling quite confused and thinking longingly of his forge, Gimli gave Legolas a perfunctory scan. He lay as still as he had since the moment Gimli had first seen him. But if Gimli squinted, he could see the slow, shallow breaths. The feeling of idiocy had yet to fade, but the sting had mostly subsided, and Gimli took another look.

Legolas was bathed in colored light from the stained-glass windows. His smooth golden hair looked even lovelier tied back in intricate braids. The delicate shade of his skin had always seemed strangely faded, but now having seen healthy wood elves Gimli could guess the rich shade of brown it was meant to be. And yet, despite what must have been a long deprivation, he looked so peaceful that it made Gimli ache.

When Tauriel had proved that Legolas yet lived, it had felt like a punch to the gut; the sort that drove all the breath out and left one struggling to recover for hours after. Gimli’s heart was such a tangle he couldn’t rightly say what he was feeling. But now he knew a part of it: He was ashamed. He could never admit it lest he face ridicule, but he had come to admire this elf, who had sacrificed everything to help dwarves he didn’t even know. The combination of warrior prowess, valor, and yes, beauty, was enough to make Gimli very fond indeed. There had been no harm in it, and so he hadn’t censured himself.

Like a phantom touch, he could still feel his fingers in that _thrice damned hair._

But now he saw his error. Truly he had left a mountain of evidence to incriminate himself. The coffin – a masterwork of dwarven ingenuity. The work of many hands, but it was Gimli’s design, Gimli’s vision of what might appeal. The clothing, specially commissioned to fit Legolas like a glove, cut to be reminiscent of his warriors’ garb. And yet it was undeniably dwarven too. The wreath…

That was the most damning part of it, for it could not be interpreted as having been made in duty. No, that was Gimli’s own gift. At the time it had seemed safe enough. He’d meant it as an echo of a crown without being one in truth. To grant the elf the ultimate symbol of status would be inappropriate, an overreach, but to recreate out of jewels and precious metals the sorts of flower wreaths Laketown children seem so fond of had struck him as fitting. He’d carved flowers out of gems, wove silver stems together, chose every element with care to be worthy of a legend and to please an elf. He made it for the brow of a warrior who risked his life to do what was right and honorable, and by a cruel quirk of fate lost it after he’d already won.

But Legolas _hadn’t_ lost his life that day _._ And there lay the root of Gimli’s fear; for surely now that his kindred were near, sooner or later Legolas would wake. He would wake and look around him at the proof of Gimli’s labor…and turn away in disgust. For what else could an elf feel for a dwarf’s regard?

Gimli felt small, and ashamed, and humiliated, yet strangely defiant. It was not a crime to – to give a fellow warrior his due. Even if he was of another race. But neither had he ever meant for his motivations to be subject to the scrutiny he was now afraid was inevitable.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Tauriel was the one to prop Legolas up this time while one of the other elves carefully dripped watery broth down his throat. Gimli watched and wondered why he was there. During the month he’d had Legolas in his care, he’d been glad to do what he could. But now that there were elves present who surely knew what to do better than he, Gimli felt awkward. There was a strange sense of grief as well. Even though Legolas was never his, it felt like a loss nevertheless.

“That’s enough,” an elf said softly. Tauriel sighed. She turned her head and kissed Legolas on the cheek, then gently eased him down. Gimli felt that odd feeling of mourning come over him again.

“Legolas is your husband?” the words were out of his mouth before he could rethink them.

Tauriel looked at him, startled, and then laughed. “No,” she said, still smiling. “It is only a gesture of affection to us. I have known him all his life.” And to prove it she darted down to kiss the other side.

She was so good-natured about it that Gimli couldn’t help laughing a little too. “How strange your customs seem to me,” he teased, for the atmosphere seemed light enough to stand it. “Any dwarf who saw such a display would assume you two married!”

Tauriel shrugged one muscled shoulder. She was smiling. “How private do the dwarves seem to me! A kiss on the mouth would mean what you say, but what I did may pass between close friends and family members as well as with one’s spouse! Why–” and she fell into giggles. It was surpassing odd and yet endearing all the same to see an adult elf giggle like a child. “Why – _you_ might even give such a gesture of affection to him now! After everything you have done for him, it seems only fitting.”

It did not occur to Gimli then, and would not for some weeks, that she meant this as a good-natured jibe at dwarven sensibilities and not as a serious suggestion. He was flustered, and this only fueled her mirth. The other elves laughed too, and the childlike mood of their merriment soothed Gimli’s offense. After a minute, he joined them in good humor. It felt good to laugh, even at himself.

After that the atmosphere was very light indeed. The elves were in fine spirits and sang and talked together for some time longer. Gimli found them more than tolerable company, to his own surprise. They were flighty and silly and strange, but well-meaning at the heart of it.

It seemed no time at all before arrangements were being made for the keeping of the elves overnight. They needed little, accepting food and drink but insisting they could sleep outside. This was pure nonsense, and Gimli spent some time convincing them of this. Finally the agreement was made to clear one of the parapets for their use. Such a space was meant for sentries, but it was open to the sky while still protecting from outside dangers.

Privately Gimli conceded Tauriel’s point that the elves could take care of themselves, but it was a point of principal. Erebor’s hospitality would not allow for guests to sleep outside its protection, no matter how much danger they were or were not likely to face.

Tauriel was the last to leave, lingering over Legolas. She shot Gimli an odd sort of smile when she saw his look of concern. “I suppose I have nothing to worry about,” she murmured. “You have kept him well for us. I know you will not allow aught to befall him in the night.”

Gimli bowed. Inexplicably he felt his throat tighten as if in preparation for tears. “I will not,” he promised, and was proud when his voice didn’t waver.

The elf smiled tiredly. Gently, she reached out and pressed two fingers to Gimli’s cheek. “In place of a kiss,” she said, and the shadow of laughter was back in her eyes. Gimli made some sounds of irritation but did not step out of her reach. “Truly, you have done the elves a great favor. It will not be soon forgotten, Gimli son of Glóin.”

She was gone in the next moment, leaving Gimli alone in the room with Legolas.

He felt worn out and hollow. He’d been hours with the elves, riding the tension that was diplomacy, and now that it was gone he had nothing left but exhaustion. He sighed, trying to think. There were still dwarves stationed outside the room; he could go now to his chambers and sleep. Legolas would lie undisturbed until the morning.

But even as a yawn cracked his jaw, Gimli hesitated to leave. For weeks he had kept Legolas in his own quarters, leaving him by the fireplace at night when he retired to his room. But he had not known then that he was leaving a living person. It seemed unconscionably risky to do the same now, even with guards outside. What if Legolas should wake? Or – the thought came to him in a flash of terror – what if his body could not stand the shock of food after so long without, and tried to vomit in the night? Lying on his back as he was, the elf would surely choke.

Gimli came close to the casket and peered anxiously at him. Legolas lay as serenely as ever. The torches on the walls cast flickers of light over his skin, amber light lending it the richness deprivation had stolen. There was no sign of distress.

But there would be many hours until the dawn. Gimli decided that he must organize a watch in the room to compliment the one outside. It was the only way to be sure.

He lingered some minutes after this decision, hazy from the fog of exhaustion, simply looking at Legolas. His mind was a morass of sluggish, half-formed thought. He was still afraid, for he felt his efforts to honor Legolas would be judged; that they had not been thus far was a pale comfort in the face of his certainty. He was sad, too, that he was losing Legolas as his charge. This was truly strange, for he had not enjoyed caring for what he’d believed to be a corpse. The entire affair had been shot with tragedy from the start, and Gimli had ever been grieved by it. And yet he could not deny that the thought of Legolas passing beyond his reach was a bitter one.

Had he not been so tired Gimli might have berated himself for that. It seemed loathsome, to feel an attachment to someone you had never properly met. But in the soft ambience of the night, alone with an unconscious body in an empty room, truth lost its bite.

Tauriel’s words came back to him then: _you might even give such a gesture of affection to him now_. As if in a dream he saw her again, leaning down to kiss Legolas on the cheek. To Gimli’s murky mind, the scandal of the idea was absent now. He hummed absently to himself. Then he took Legolas’s face in his hands, as carefully as if it were made of the thinnest crystal.

“Goodbye Legolas,” he whispered, and pressed a kiss to the cool forehead.

He drew back with equal care, then stopped.

A strange feeling came over him – as if the world had stopped, or changed, or vanished – and for a long terrifying moment he could not feel or move his body. Gimli breathed, and stared.

Beneath him, through green eyes clouded with confusion, Legolas looked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel, whose king often wears a crown of flowers: Oh wow this FLOWER CROWN you made out of rocks (for some reason) and gave to our prince (who you don’t know is a prince – or do you?????) sure is a KINGLY GIFT.
> 
> Gimli: I’m glad you like it, I worked hard.
> 
> Tauriel: …It seems like you put a lot of thought and effort into this. (PLEASE DO TELL ME WHY)
> 
> Gimli: Thanks.
> 
> Tauriel:
> 
> She was trying to figure out if he might know why Legolas was wondering around Erebor too, lol. Gimli has no idea how frustrating he’s being, just by not knowing enough to read between the lines.
> 
> Side note, there’s been a lot of Legolas-admiration since, you know, he hasn’t exactly been awake to think anything about Gimli. Well he is now! All y’all dwarf lovers, it’s your turn! (Well, almost. Wee bit of angst to get through first. But no need to worry about that. ;p)
> 
> If you are wondering why I didn’t go for the ultimate Sleeping Beauty moment wherein a kiss on the lips breaks the curse, it is because I think that would cross a line. Both in this story with these characters, but also in the original story, honestly. Unless the victim in question is already in love with someone (which she was in the Disney version, but not in the Grimm fairytale), it’s creepy to have your hero kiss someone who is asleep and cannot consent. I’m not saying it should never happen in any story ever, I just don’t like when it’s played as a romantic beat.
> 
> The next chapter is…going to be big. I’m quite nervous, to be honest. It’s called ‘The Unravelling,’ because by the end of it many mysteries will have been untangled. Also because it’s the story of Legolas’s breakdown. His woes did not start when he fell into that sinkhole, no. It’s kind of a make it or break it chapter for this story. So fingers crossed for that!


	9. To the Surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the Tolkien Gateway website says that fëa is the Quenya word for soul and fae is the Sindarin version. I'm using the latter, since I don't figure Legolas has much cause to speak Quenya.

Sound trickled down to him like sunlight through leaves. Scuffling noises from little feet. Birds singing alarm and reassurance to each other.

In the distance, dwarves were calling to each other. Some were crying.

He tasted metal on his tongue. His vision wavered, and when he blinked the blackness took an extra moment to fade. His throat was scraped raw by smoke and tears. No matter how he screamed, no one could hear him. Again and again he clawed at the earth. His feet struggled to find traction, his fingers dug deep into the soil, and it crumbled beneath him.

Panic wouldn’t help. He needed to remember that – he needed to breathe. Legolas cried out and could barely hear his own raspy voice. In the distances the voices continued unabated. He jumped – his ankle screamed – and he fell back. Something strange happened then. It was as if the entire world went suddenly silent. He saw red, then black.

The next thing he knew was pain radiating through his skull and shooting down his spine. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. Darkness was a solid object wrapping around him, and he sank into it as if to the sea.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_I don’t want to die._

It was the only thought in his head. His anchor in the changing, agonizing world.

_I don’t want to die._

_I don’t want to die._

_I don’t want to die._

He did not know if he was awake or dreaming. He could not make sense of what he saw. Dizzying colors and shapes, some frightening, but there was nothing he recognized. There was only his heartbeat in his ears. Slow. Inexorable. The cold – a feeling so odd it had taken him some time to place – an ache permeating his very bones. The heaviness in his eyes, his limbs, his mind.

_Elbereth please._

Time passed. He marked it by the weather, the occasional crack of thunder. When he heard rain, he tried to open his mouth. Sometimes he felt water sliding down his throat. Sometimes he felt nothing at all.

_Lúthien._

He wished for his Ada. He wanted to go home. He wanted it to end. But…

_I don’t want to die._

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Voices in the distance. Dwarven. They came and went, but always at a distance. Legolas wondered if by his foolishness he had cursed himself to this half-life; within shouting distance of his beloved’s people, but voiceless and alone. The image came again, as it often had since Lúthien first granted it to him; a dwarf, strong and proud, with a noble brow and warm, laughing eyes. His love. He could not die before he met his love.

Legolas was beginning to wonder if he would have a choice.

His very fae trembled at the thought. Legolas felt himself breathe slowly, and the darkness rose again to claim him.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Someone was humming. Legolas’ life had become a slow drift through memories in elven dreams. Never did any new sensation filter through. But now there was humming. Water splashed, and dripped.

Gradually, he became aware of a strangeness about his left arm and hand. The air felt heavy and thick around it. He puzzled over this for a few moments until something took hold of his wrist, and then his hand was being touched all over. It felt like a cloth, rough but not painful on his skin. He could hear someone breathing, low and pained. Finger by finger his hand was thoroughly cleaned, particularly around the nails. Legolas wondered, hazily, what was happening, but soon sank back down into oblivion.

Time passed – he thought. Perhaps not. He heard water again, and splashing. Someone speaking. A low voice; kind. Westron. Man or dwarf?

Legolas felt sparks of awareness flaring. They had been for some time, but only now did he take note. He could feel his hands, his legs, his feet. The awareness was sharper wherever he was touched; strong, broad hands. They had thick callouses that dragged on his skin, urged it awake. He had been long asleep, and change came slowly; too slowly. Still could he not move. But he listened, and he felt.

Then came a thick pause in the stream of words. Touch receded. And;

“Sorry lad,” the deep voice murmured, and Legolas felt its resonance in his bones even as hands combed carefully through his hair. “But I reckon you'd want to be clean, even if that means accepting a little help. I have good hands, so I'm told, so don't you worry. This won't take long."

Legolas could neither object nor remember why he might have wanted to. It was not regular, he remembered vaguely, there were rules around this sort of thing, but the voice was kind and the hands were good, and in this heavy darkness, it was hard to care about aught else. The voice seemed to think it owed him apology though; it did keep insisting on it, and promised again and again that everything was going well, that he was lovely, that it wouldn’t be much longer.

Legolas had been long alone in the cold and dark and quiet. He did not mind this new warmth. He liked the strong, careful fingers in his hair, and wished they might stay longer. But he could not say so.

If he had been free of the darkness which held him paralyzed, Legolas would still have been pliant when at last he felt himself settled next to a fire. The endless stream of gentle reassurances had worked well; he felt that he had been rescued, that he was safe. Further, the earnestness with which he was spoken to was endearing, and he longed to properly meet his rescuer.

Though some of the things he had heard were…questionable. After all, what did he have in common with a jewel? It was a shiny rock from the ground, and he, an elf! The comparison was absurd, and also very funny. He would have to try not to laugh about it, for he could tell the intention was to flatter him, and he wished to offer no insult.

Then the voice called him a brave fighter, and Legolas’ heart flashed hot, then cold. Inside his own mind he went very still. Elven memory blurs less than others, and if he wished – he did not wish – but he could go back, as if he was still there. As if he’d never left. The great dragon. The fire in the halls.

Elbereth, he’d been so terrified.

No…no, he was not brave. But he could not deny that it pleased him that his gentle benefactor thought so.

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Legolas was pulled slowly up from the dark by dawning awareness. Sound had been filtering down to him, and in his exhaustion, he’d ignored much. But that voice, he recognized. _Tauriel?_ It had felt like her. Legolas mustered his energy but was still – yes. Locked in his body. He had come up closer to where he had been when the good presence had spoken to him, but he had not breached the surface.

There were many voices now, and some of these he recognized. Tauriel, yes. And the good voice was also there.

  
This was pleasing, if strange. The feeling of having been rescued returned. Legolas waited, with a great deal more excitement than before.

Eventually it became quiet again. He had not the sense of being alone; someone else still breathed nearby. He waited.

“Goodbye, Legolas,” whispered the voice, and then –

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Legolas opened his eyes. Above him he could make out the hazy image of a person with great quantities of thick red hair. Pretty color. Was that a beard? He blinked. _Dwarf?_

Stuttering sounds were coming from the person, in an accent both deeper and richer than that of the Laketown folk. It was the good voice! And yes, it was a dwarf _._ Legolas smiled, delighted, and the sounds tapered off.

Legolas felt strange. Heavy and fuzzy and warm. There was something terribly wrong…or, there had been…was there still? He didn’t know. Despite his body’s odd unresponsiveness, he had a feeling everything was alright. He couldn’t quite think properly – his head seemed full of clouds – but despite this, or because of this, he felt no urgency and was content to simply lay there and smile.

“Are – do you know who I am? Where you are?” the voice sounded shaken. Legolas didn’t know why. Everything seemed so soft and unthreatening. And as his vision cleared he saw better news still –

“I _do_ know you,” he whispered, and could not keep the joy from his voice. Speaking was unexpectedly difficult; he had to repress the urge to cough, and every word scraped at his throat like a rock. Yet that pain was nothing to the joy of his recognition. But that was a little much to start an introduction with, so – “You talked to me.”

It was difficult to tell – for some reason his eyes didn’t want to focus – but he thought the dwarf might be vibrating.

“I – yes.” That deep voice was hoarse with some suppressed emotion. “Uh. Ye-es. You – I should – do you want…”

Legolas blinked up at the shadowy figure. It felt odd to be prone while someone stood over him, and so he sat up. Or at least he tried; the more he woke up the more he realized how weak his body felt. He remembered being called a great warrior, and heat pinked his cheeks. All the strength was gone from him. Legolas struggled weakly, and to his horror felt the blackness encroach again. He tried to hold on, but his vision was swimming. He thought he felt a calloused hand briefly touch his forehead.

“You’re unwell,” the dwarf told him. He sounded very upset for some reason. Legolas hummed thoughtfully. There was _something_ wrong, anyway. His eyes closed.

“Wait – no –” a yelp from above. “Guards – GUARDS! Stay awake. Lady Tauriel is coming. Will you not wait for her?”

Legolas took his time answering. The darkness was sweet and cool, and he was loathe to leave it. _Lady_ Tauriel. What a strange thing to say. He parted his lips to speak, but just sighed. There was noise all around him, but the tiredness in his bones pulled him down into oblivion.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

“– awoke – spoke to me –”

“Any change? Why –”

“I cannot say. I was thinking – then I – staring at me –”

The voices _would not let up._ He was pressed down under a weighty cloud, yet pin-needle shafts of sound stabbed through it and into his ears. Legolas made a noise of complaint, but then that made it _worse_ because now they were talking to _him_.

“Wake up, Legolas. Legolas –”

“Just for a moment, dear, just –”

“We have –”

“ _Laegolas Thranduilion!_ ”

Years of instinct forced him up through the fog. Hazy eyes opened, squinted, and closed again. “Ta’rel what.” He was trying to _sleep._ Speaking still hurt, too. What did she _want?_

“Drink.” Her voice sounded odd, somehow. It reminded him of the dwarf. Legolas puzzled over this, but then someone was pulling him up – he blacked out for a moment and came back to himself when something was pressed to his lips.

This seemed like a poor reason to disturb him, but Legolas felt too sick to argue. He fell asleep between one moment and the next, and didn’t wake even to the feeling of choking, nor when someone pounded his back until his airway cleared.

When next he woke it was to the feeling of a hand in his, and Tauriel’s familiar voice. That was familiar, but – wrong. He remembered; hadn’t someone done this? But he remembered a broader hand with a rough texture, though it had touched him so gently…and a deep voice. The good voice. Where had that gone?

“Tauriel,” he whispered. Immediately everything was quiet. Her hand tightened on his, then relaxed. Legolas frowned. Where had that other gone…?

“Legolas,” she said, and her voice was strained. “Will you drink?”

He recognized the words she said but could not make sense of them. He opened his eyes briefly, but the colors were too much. He felt sick. Tauriel soothed him, whispered gently, stroked his brow. After a while he felt a little better.

“…drink,” he said, and meant it as a question. But soon enough he was being lifted again, and then something that tasted strongly of medicine was sliding down his throat. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant and eased some of the ache in his stomach, so he bore it as long as he could. When he was finished he felt the darkness creeping in, but had to ask –

“There was a dwarf,” he started, and then felt horribly stupid. As if that narrowed it down! But, wait – didn’t it? Where _was_ he? “Do you – did you see him?”

“A dwarf?” Tauriel asked quietly, not in Sindarin but in Sylvan, the secret language of wood elves. “I have met many. Did one hurt you?”

That was – no. Why would she think that? “No,” he rasped. “No, he was – kind.”

Tauriel hummed, and then was silent for a time. “Do not be concerned,” She said, when he was nearly asleep. “You are safe. Once you are well I will help you find anyone you like.”

Legolas wasn’t sure he wanted to wait that long, but he could not reply; he was already asleep.

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They were having a meeting when next he woke. Tauriel, Himel, and others he knew from the Greenwood. It was their quiet voices which roused him. Legolas opened his eyes carefully against the light, blinking away tears.

He sat up. It took quite a lot of effort, but only until Tauriel startled, turned, and helped him.

“Legolas!” she gasped. “We thought you were sleeping.”

He looked past her at the assembled elves, but his eyes were still wet and their faces blurred. Again he felt his energy draining. Slowly he leaned his head against Tauriel and closed his eyes. She eased him down again, clucking over him quietly in concern. He felt her fingers at his pulse, but if she realized he wasn’t asleep quite yet she didn’t say.

“It is alright.” She said, and only sounded a little like she was lying. “He is already asleep again.”

“He is still too unwell for travel,” someone said softly.

“He will heal better in the forest. And the King wishes him home.”

Someone else started to say something, but Legolas had already shot up in alarm. Immediately he swayed and had to cling to Tauriel’s arm to stay upright.

“No,” he slurred. “He’s already here. No.”

Someone gripped his wrists, tried to feel his forehead. He swayed dangerously. He was heavy, and tired.

“Legolas, what is it? Who is here?”

Words. What were words, when his head ached and his thoughts ran slow? But this was important. He did not have _time._ He tried to think of how to convince her. “I cannot go,” he whispered. Never had he counted time under leaf and branch, but time was all that mattered now. What could he say, to make them understand. “It will kill me.”

Someone gasped. Hands were still on his head, his back, softening his fall. Legolas could feel himself slipping away again. It was only dark, only dizzy.

“No,” he muttered. “No. No.”

But his willpower had gone away again. His stomach roiled, the black crashed in, and he fell under.

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Legolas came back to himself slowly. All was still, and quiet. He turned his head and it ached suddenly, and he raised a hand to it.

He paused. His hand had touched something smooth and hard. It was little…little shapes? On his head? They felt cool beneath his fingers, and he could feel much detail though he couldn’t yet tell what he was touching. It was…a circlet? On his head? With things on it.

Legolas blinked up at the ceiling, baffled.

Cautiously he sat up and looked around. Immediately, he caught his breath.

Light streamed in through the round glass window. It was cut in sections, and each section was colored so that the light came through in pinks and yellows. It fell soft upon the piles of flowers all around him, bushels of them spilling over and covering the outer edge of the entire room. The light and the greenery, even plucked from its roots and slowly dying, compelled him to tears.

The sound startled Avornel, who he hadn’t noticed before. She sprang up from her chair and hastened to his side.

“Why do you cry? What is wrong?”

Legolas shook his head. His heart felt overfull, and he didn’t know how to explain what he felt. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing’s wrong. I’m happy.”

Avornel hummed doubtfully. She gave him her handkerchief and stroked his back until he regained his composure.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. He couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. “It is only…I…the flowers...”

She seemed to understand, at least a little. “We never stopped looking for you,” she told him, and then, “You’re safe now.”

Legolas sighed, and leaned into her. The thing on his head pressed against his skull. “Where are we?”

There was a slight pause before she answered that he didn’t know how to read. “With the dwarves. It was they who found you. Just outside Erebor, they said.”

“Yes…it would have been so. I…there are…” Legolas reached up and tried to disentangle the band from his hair as he talked. “…holes, in the ground…I was crossing the field and I…the earth opened beneath me.”

Avornel started to speak then stopped herself. Legolas glanced at her, but then his headpiece came free. He pulled it down to look.

Here was another surprise, nearly as moving as the flowers had been. And that was fitting, for these were flowers too, but grown out of precious stones and metal. That was Legolas’ first thought; in truth he understood very little of jewels or how cunningly they could be wrought, and he considered for long moments, stroking over the tiny stamen, whether perhaps flowers grew underground from rock and stone and he had simply never heard of it. He could not understand how such a beautiful thing could be made by anyone less than a Valar.

A knock came at the door. Legolas saw Avornel twist her hands together. She seemed caught for a moment in consternation, then all at once she was up and crossing the room.

Legolas supposed it was another elf and lowered his eyes again. He traced a finger over the smooth petals, marveling.

“Good evening, Lady. I have – ” The voice faltered. Legolas looked up, and caught his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is what happened between my last chapter and this one. I worked very hard on this chapter. It fought me. School started (I'm a college student). I was able to do a little more during the semester, but not much. About two weeks ago the semester ended, I traveled home, I started working on the chapter again.
> 
> I want you all to know that although the final chapter is a little over 3000 words at one point I had over 10,000. It fought me so hard, y'all. I went through so many versions and cut out way more than I left in (it was for the better, trust me). I'm still not thrilled with it, but sometimes you've just got to push through.
> 
> I really appreciate y'all so much. Every time a new reader found my story it made my week. An older reader even came back just to check on me, and that was so sweet I couldn't believe it. Y'all are kinder than I deserve. Please don't worry though; like I said at the outset, the primary purpose of this story is for me to practice my writing. So while I can't promise the end product will be much good, but there will be an end product, even if school grinds me to a halt for awhile.
> 
> I sincerely hope that you've enjoyed my newest offering, and I'll do my best to update quicker next time. ;)


	10. Labors of a Misapprehension

Thorin could feel control slipping away from him like water out of cupped hands. It had seemed only honorable, to treat Smaug Killer with respect. Despite his elven nature, he truly had done a great deed for the dwarves of Erebor. Thorin had meant merely to recognize this, and then move on.

But now see how things had degraded! It was so much worse than ever he could have anticipated. Now Smaug Killer was awake, and capable of demanding restitution for his sacrifice; an amount, Thorin grimly predicted, which would be rather more than he would be willing to give.

It would be different, if somehow a great sacrifice like that could be prearranged, a payment agreed upon. Thorin was not afraid to pay his debts. But when someone acted on their own initiative, provided something unasked for – well – why should the dwarves allow themselves to be bled dry?

The same thoughts, he feared, had already occurred to many in Erebor. There were mutterings, growing whispers. It was all still so novel, and exciting to a great deal of the populace. But already some of his more seasoned advisors looked with distaste and suspicion upon the elves. Everything hung on what happened next. If Thorin did not assert himself quickly and decisively, his standing as king could be weakened; and that, he could not abide.

He sat alone in his drawing room and considered the problem. Smaug Killer was yet weak. Disoriented. Thorin’s mouth tightened in distaste at his own thoughts, but the resolve to do what was needed was what made a king. If he could extract terms now, before the elf healed and gathered his bearings enough to express the full depths of his cunning…

Yes…yes, that was what he would do. He would have to be careful, so that the elf would not feel put upon, would not become angry. He did not wish to part on bad terms (and that was another thing; how soon would the elves return to their king? He must have from them a written contract _before_ the Jewel Thief involved himself). It would not be possible to minimize the importance of Smaug’s death, so Thorin would have to lean on the unexpected and unasked for nature of the assistance. Perhaps even mention how counterproductive it would be, to save the dwarves only to financially cripple them…he’d watch carefully and see what arguments were most likely to make an impact.

Decided, Thorin first summoned his brother and sister – he would need their help – and then, after some thought, called for his little cousin. Glóinul had served him well in the proceedings thus far, and the elves knew his face. He would go ahead of them as messenger and afterwards would stay for the meeting. His presence, Thorin thought, might be of some use; Gimli had shown talent in dealing with elves.

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Gimli wished people would stop asking things of him.

Of course, Thorin was his king. He was honor bound to obey. But that did not stop him from wishing he could tell him, cousin to cousin, to shove off.

It shamed him even to think such a thing, but Gimli set his jaw mulishly and thought it anyway. The past month had been a whirlwind, and the past few days even worse. He needed some time alone. He needed to think. Surely there was something he was missing, something to make it all make sense.

It’d near enough stopped his heart from shock when Legolas woke up. It was as if his energy, his very lifeforce, had drained away like the blood from his face. He’d half expected when he’d finally stumbled home that morning, after all the chaos had finally died down, to see white hair in the mirror. And Legolas had – had _smiled_ at him. Even days later his face burned at the memory. Never in his life had he seen such honest joy…or such a beautiful smile.

The elf must be insane. Or a half-wit. The thought stung, and maybe that was why it didn’t feel right. It was like a round peg into a square hole; he could make it fit, but not well. They had spoken only briefly, yet to his mind it had been unlike speaking to a madman. But then, how to explain the softness in that verdurous gaze, the openness in that smile?

Gimli could not understand. He knew not what to think. He needed more time, but he was already at the room, gazing at the ornately carved doors, and his mind was a chaos of light and sound. No good delaying; Thorin would soon follow, and he needed to have laid the groundwork by then. Gimli inhaled, and knocked.

“Good evening, Lady,” he began smoothly, and tried desperately to remember which elf this was. He thought it was one of those who had run messages back and forth from the mountain to the woods but could not remember her name – if, indeed, he had ever known it. “I have come at the behest of my king. He has important matters to discuss with Lord Legolas, if he is awake at present.”

At least, that was what he meant to say. All his concentration was shattered, however, when he caught sight of Legolas, indeed awake and examining his crown with naked admiration.

He could not name the feeling that rose then, only that it was unbearable. _Stop that,_ he wanted to snap. _Affix your tender gaze on something that better deserves it._ He almost wanted to throw something – perhaps a potted plant – if only to stop Legolas marveling so at his creation. A stupid thought, but he couldn’t find a better one. His skin was too tight; he could feel each agonizing beat of his foolish heart.

Then Legolas looked up and immediately made everything worse. His mouth dropped briefly in surprise, then closed as his eyes lit up – it was just like before, Gimli thought hazily, it was the same look at when he’d first awoken – and he beamed.

The lady had turned to follow Gimli’s gaze when he faltered. She made a low sound, somewhere between surprise and displeasure. “I beg thy pardon,” she said slowly, to Gimli. “My charge is yet unwell. Didst thou come with a message?”

Gimli blinked at her. He had to sort through her accent and style of speech for a long moment. Her Westron was both old fashioned and ill-practiced, and for a thrilling, dizzying second, Gimli contemplated elven lifespans.

“I – yes, Lady. The King wishes to speak with Legolas, if he is well enough at moment. I am given to understand that it is a matter of some importance.”

Legolas made a lilting, curious noise. Gimli tried not to look at him but couldn’t help but glance up when he spoke. “I am well enough, though I hope he will not take offense if our meeting is cut short. I am…that is, I still do not…”

He hesitated, and Gimli studied him warily. Legolas’ brow was furrowed, and his hand stroked idly at the crown while he struggled for words. The lady started to speak, stopped, and looked briefly at Gimli. She, too, seemed to have to fight with Westron, though perhaps for a different reason.

“It will be ‘cut short’ when you collapse,” she said bluntly. “Thou art – most unwell.”

“No offense will be taken, if we must end early,” Gimli said hastily. He didn’t know what Thorin’s purpose was, but he trusted him to be reasonable. “We will do all we can, to safeguard your health.”

Legolas made another nonverbal noise. It sounded affirming, but Gimli wasn’t sure. The lady didn’t look happy, but Legolas was smiling, and she didn’t seem to want to refuse him. She glanced between the two of them, clearly considering whether or argue further or give up and allow it. Then came the tread of feet, and a strong knock on the door, and she was out of time.

The lady’s eyes flashed, and Gimli wondered in alarm if she would defy his king directly, but she only opened the door and accepted the new visitors with carefully correct pleasantries.

“I am not suited for a meeting with such honored guests,” she said softly, and something about her impeccable cordiality sent a thrill of alarm up Gimli’s spine. She was measuring her words carefully to mitigate her accent, and he tried to blame that for the way her words made him shiver with foreboding. “Please, make yourselves welcome. I shalt go and find –” a strange pause here, a hesitation “– the Lady Tauriel, who is better qualified for…such meetings. In my absence, pray look after my Lord Legolas.” This last she directed at Gimli.

He watched her go uneasily. Never had he heard the elves refer to each other as lords or ladies and had rather come to suspect that either they did not use such titles, or all the wood elves in the mountain were of low status. That they were being used now seemed to him to be some sort of warning, though he could not decipher it.

Legolas looked less certain now, even vulnerable. Gimli looked at him and felt a pang. He seemed worryingly frail, particularly compared to broad, well-muscled dwarves. Gimli found himself taking up position closest to the elf and felt a shock of energy when Legolas met his gaze. He smiled, just barely. Gimli breathed out. His face felt frozen. He nodded back, and Legolas seemed satisfied.

Thorin – wise and eloquent – could talk for a long while before coming to the point, and it was this circumlocution which he engaged in now. He was speaking of Smaug, but in such a roundabout way that even Gimli, familiar with his cousin’s ways, could not guess at what he wanted.

Legolas’ mouth was set in a small frown. Gimli couldn’t tell how closely he was listening. It seemed like all his attention was focused on Thorin, but his eyes…Gimli wasn’t sure. Elven eyes had an unsettling way of looking right though you, but Legolas just looked blank.

Then Legolas leaned forward, the motion both sudden and yet somehow delicate. Unassuming. “Thorin, son of Thráin the second, grandson of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, if you mean to offer me thanks for my part in Smaug’s demise, then I accept and return the sentiment. Truly, it was the work of all who were present, not only us three who struck the killing blows. Erebor fought bravely on that day.”

For all that it had been phrased with utmost courtesy it was perhaps the most disruptive thing Legolas could have said. To demur in the face of dwarven gratitude was not the done thing. Gimli peeked at his kin’s fixed expressions. No one quite seemed to know how to respond.

He realized that Legolas had addressed Thorin in exactly the way he had been announced. Gimli found that rather sweet; clearly Legolas was not _intending_ to be rude.

Prince Frerin stepped forward. His every movement was controlled and deliberate. With the advantage of their long acquaintance, Gimli thought the prince looked nervous, if determined. “I was present for these events. I saw you loose an arrow, and the great beast fall. In the confusion I could not see who your compatriots were, who shared in your victory.”

The lady Dís looked at him sharply, but Frerin’s gaze was steady on the elf. The room was so quiet Gimli could hear his own heartbeat. He did not understand why, but he could feel that there was a tremendous tension in the air.

Legolas blinked. He seemed vaguely confused. His words were quiet, but in the stillness not one was missed. “The dragon had armor of thick scales, which turned aside all attacks. When he returned from terrorizing Lake Town, there was a gap in the armor.” Here he tilted his head slowly. “I assumed some skilled human had knocked off a scale with a well-placed arrow. It provided an opportunity, where otherwise I would have had none.”

Now his gaze slid from Frerin to the King. “I was able to take advantage, though I lost my weapon in the attempt. But it was your ax that dealt the final blow.”

Thorin stared at him.

Gimli looked at his king’s stony countenance, then at Frerin’s look of triumph. The lady Dís was surveying Legolas as if he were a puzzle piece she couldn’t place. In the flickering light, Legolas just looked uncomfortable.

Gimli looked down at his feet and breathed.

_‘I was able to take advantage,’_ he thought, and bit his lip not to laugh. This kind of humility – so genuine he was sure Legolas didn’t even know he was being humble – only made him admire the elf more. They were all but strangers, despite their odd circumstances, but Gimli already liked him so much it was nearly indecent.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us during your convalescence.” Thorin said, just a little too late to stop the silence from becoming awkward. “I am glad to finally hear your side of events.”

Another pause. Legolas’ hands, Gimli suddenly noticed, were worrying gently at the flower crown he still held.

“If there is anything you require to aid in your recovery, ask; any reasonable accommodation will be made.” A slight hesitation. “It was an honor to fight with you that day.” And he inclined his head in an unmistakable gesture of respect. The other dwarves made similar gestures, according to their station. Gimli wasn’t altogether surprised to see that Legolas didn’t seem to realize the significance of this.

There were only a few more pleasantries, all appropriate and regal from the dwarves and clumsily sincere from Legolas, and then Thorin and his entourage filed out. Gimli remained. He would have anyway, so as not to leave Legolas alone and break his promise to the elf lady, but Legolas had asked, so quietly he’d had to strain to it, for him to remain.

Legolas looked drained. Hardly had the door shut before he slumped back with a heavy sigh, eyes fluttering closed. Gimli stepped closer, hands reaching out but then stopping to hover uncertainly. His impulse was still to take care of the elf as if he were insensate, but of course they were beyond that now. Should he offer to do something, fetch something…?

Before he could decide, Legolas’ eyes flicked open. Gimli froze. For the space of two heartbeats they regarded each other.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Legolas said at last. The way he said it made Gimli wonder if he’d meant to say something else, but then the actual words caught up to him.

“It was you who saved my people,” he blurted.

Legolas looked bewildered. He glanced towards the door. “Oh. I was – glad to help.” He seemed nearly as uncomfortable as Gimli felt. “But, you saved my life, I think. So.” He jerked a shoulder in a half shrug, peeking at Gimli from under his eyelashes. “Shall we call it even?”

_Absolutely not,_ Gimli thought mulishly, but pushed it down. It was difficult to think clearly. All his blood had taken up residence in his face and didn’t seem to want to move. He cast about for something to say, tried to think of how to tactfully explain that those were _clearly not at all equivalent_ and how impressive Legolas’ feat had been – but how to say that without sounding like a star struck stripling? It was no childish hero worship he had, merely the proper respect for a great warrior. It was baffling to him that Legolas didn’t seem to know his own bravery.

His gaze fell on the flower wreath, still being gently caressed in the elf’s lap. He paused. Already the answer was known, but he couldn’t help but want to hear it directly. “Does it please you?” he asked, jerking his head to indicate the crown.

Sure enough, his informality didn’t even seem to register. Gimli thought he was beginning to understand wood elf etiquette. Legolas looked down, and Gimli was intrigued to see spots of color stain his cheeks. “Yes,” he said softly. He looked at it with so much wonder that Gimli actually had to tug his own beard painfully to regain his focus. “It is beautiful. How was it made?”

Gimli, pleased to be on more solid footing, launched immediately into an explanation of his processes. Legolas stopped him after just a few minutes, however. His eyes were blown wide. “ _You_ made this?” he breathed.

Gimli nodded slowly.

Legolas lifted the crown to examine it anew. He handled it with as much reverence, Gimli thought, as if it were truly made of delicate stems and living flowers. “A treasure indeed,” he murmured. Gently, he set it down again. “How did it come to be in my keeping?”

It was then, right as Gimli was poleaxed with the realization that Legolas had not presumed a claim to the crown that he’d _woken up wearing,_ that Tauriel arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My children finally talk! More of that next chapter, if poor Legolas can stay awake for it. You've just awoken from a coma dear, you really shouldn't push yourself! Thorin will probably also feature. He misjudged things quite a lot. Now he's gotta regroup and come up with some better plans. Poor thing doesn't know what to make of this weird elf, which, like...fair. Many many cultural differences at play here.
> 
> I hope Gimli's reactions make sense to y'all. I feel like, if soulmates were a thing - and this *is* kinda a soulmate story - if there really was a person who was made for you, and who was perfectly suited to make you happy, then interacting with them, at least at first, would be kind of really upsetting. Like, have you ever had things go so right that you got overwhelmed? Your brain isn’t used to it. You’re looking for the catch. It’d be like that, I think.
> 
> I remain equal parts grateful for and confused by all of you kind people reading my story. I never expected people to like it, I just sort of started posting it on a whim. XD So if it makes you even a little bit happy, then I am glad. We could all use some happiness right now. <3


	11. Unfolding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title : No One But Legolas Knows What's Going On And They're All Starting To Get Upset About It

Tauriel swept inside without knocking, a towering force of icy displeasure which pulled up short at the sight of them. For the space of a quick, unhappy breath she stared at them, and then exhaled and let her shoulders drop. “Avornel said there was…an important meeting,” she said, and her tone made it a question.

Legolas made a little sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He was not at all sure what had happened and did not particularly want to guess. It seemed simple to him: The dragon was dead. Therefore, there was no reason to speak of it. But even this he had not said to the dwarves and would not say now, for he was afraid twice over. First the memory of the beast made him tremble, and then also did the thought of his fear being guessed at by those around him.

Especially this dwarf. Legolas glanced at him sidelong from below lowered lashes. He had not allowed himself to think overmuch on the matter, for he was afraid – fear again! – of what he might see.

Tauriel was not satisfied, and she looked to the dwarf for a better response.

“King Thorin wished to speak with Lord Legolas now that he is fit for it. The meeting was not long, I believe because my king does not wish to impede his recovery. It was not a forum for decisions, if that is your concern.” That last was said cautiously.

Tauriel was not appeased. “Lord Legolas,” she repeated, and her tone was unreadable. Her eyes then snapped to Legolas, and he met her gaze, bewildered. “ _What did they want with you?_ ”

Legolas blinked. He felt dizzy – had been fading slowly for awhile – but now his heart picked up. For Tauriel to speak in Sindarin in front of a dwarf could only be deliberate. If it was rude – and it was – she did not care.

“I – um.” He was caught between the impulse to answer in Sindarin and the desire not to exclude his promised love. Legolas let himself hesitate but still couldn’t muster any thoughts. His heart was thrumming in his chest. The dwarf looked at Tauriel, then at him, and Legolas saw that he was not angry, but concerned. This eased enough of the pressure that he could find his tongue again.

“They were only expressing gratitude,” Legolas said, and faltered again. He did _not_ want Tauriel to know about the dragon, mostly because he did not want to speak or hear or think of it again. “I helped them with – I – I helped, the last time we spoke. Then I fell, so – they have been much concerned for me, in the interim.” Was that overreaching? He did not mean to be presumptuous.

That sweet, steady voice spoke before he could dissolve properly into panic. “That is so. I was not born at the time, but I have heard the story. You disappeared so suddenly afterwards that many were worried for your safety.” This casual agreement startled Legolas, and he stared at the dwarf. He didn’t seem to notice. He was looking now to Tauriel. “Lady, I must offer you an apology. It was not my intention to cause distress, and though I cannot speak for my King, I am sure it is also true of him. Still, we should have informed you ahead of time. For that I am truly sorry.”

And he bowed to her; the dwarven equivalent, Legolas assumed, of a hand to the heart. It was no less strange now than when the king and his people had offered it to him. Still, Tauriel was appeased, and the atmosphere became almost friendly.

“I forgive you, Gimli. You have been a friend to us. But I beseech you – on your honor – promise to tell me first, when next an audience is desired with Legolas.”

“Gimli,” Legolas repeated, and they both looked to him. He flushed. “I – we had not been introduced, I am realizing…” he trailed off, horrified by his own clumsiness and trying not to show it.

Gimli laughed a little in surprise. Legolas heard no mockery in it and relaxed minutely. “You are right. I must apologize for the oversight. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

His voice could not exactly be called gentle, but nevertheless it felt safe somehow; like a warm hearth on a cold winter’s day. Legolas nodded faintly, and tried not to pass out. This constant lightheadedness did not bode well for his recovery.

Distantly, he could hear Gimli give his promise to Tauriel, and they exchanged some further words. Legolas realized, with an odd feeling in his chest, that they knew each other. They spoke nearly as friends. He wondered how this could have come to pass.

“Legolas, dear, are you awake?”

Legolas blinked slowly. He had slipped gradually down, and was sitting hunched over, with his elbows braced on his knees. He could not remember how this had happened. His thoughts had been fuzzy and dim for…how long had it been? With an effort, he turned to look, and found Gimli peering at him from behind Tauriel, who had spoken. Both of them were far closer than he remembered them being.

_I don’t want to sleep,_ he thought, but did not say. He did not want to be either vulnerable or petulant in front of the dwarf, and if he could not help the first, then he must not give in to the second.

“What happened to me?” he asked instead, and his words were slurred. “Why’m I so tired?”

Gimli’s brow furrowed, but he met Legolas’ gaze squarely. “You were found in the earth. We think you had been there for many years. You are suffering from long deprivation. Do you understand?”

Legolas’ mouth twisted in an anguished frown. Now that he and Gimli had met, there ought to be nothing in the way of their relationship! A long deprivation would equal a long recovery. This wasn’t fair.

He had already decided not to be childish, but this was testing his resolve.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

There was something in that little tilt of Gimli’s head, in the flicker of his eyes, that Legolas couldn’t read. His body felt heavy, and distant.

“Yes,” the good voice said, and it was as solid and certain as the stone. “Go to sleep. We will speak again in the morning.”

Legolas relaxed – just barely – and it was enough. He fell unconscious between one moment and the next.

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When Gimli’s foot found the sinkhole in which Legolas lay, there had been a moment of perfect stillness wherein he realized that he was in the middle of a field made of treacherous earth which he himself may fall prey to. It was that same sense of calm in the face of danger, that glimmering tension, that he felt now.

Tauriel turned and looked at him. Her gaze was calm, yet he felt hair raise on the back of his neck.

“Forgive me my memory,” she said quietly, “But I seem to have mistaken some of the details of your account. If you please, tell me again how you and Legolas met?”

Gimli met her gaze warily. He was reminded suddenly of King Thorin demanding his presence when all he wanted was to be let alone. Now, as then, he wished he could decline. Gimli wished fiercely for time alone with his thoughts, and then for private conversation with Legolas, preferably while everyone else attended to their own business and stopped interfering with his!

He swallowed his frustration. He answered. “You saw it happen only a short while ago. This day is the first we had been introduced.”

“But surely that was not the first time you spoke?”

“No, lady. You have heard also that account. I sent for you the moment he woke.”

“That was the first time you and he interacted?”

Gimli hesitated. Tauriel tilted her head, just slightly.

“You know already that I was the one to find him…outside of Erebor. And thought him dead.” Every word came reluctantly. He had never detailed his caretaking of Legolas to the elves or anyone else, and he did not intend to now. Not for guilt; Gimli knew he had not mistreated his charge. Rather it was the opposite. Should anyone guess at the fervor of his admiration – should Legolas hear of it – no, the very thought was unbearable.

Tauriel’s eyes seemed to stare through him. “I believe that you are being honest with me, friend Gimli. And yet, the puzzle remains unsolved.”

“Puzzle?”

“Yes,” she snapped, suddenly at the end of her patience. “The one where I asked Legolas if he was alright and he took as much notice of me as he would a chair, so entranced was he with you!”

Gimli winced. He hoped his beard was covering most of his mortified blush. Legolas hadn’t really been _entranced._ Just…distracted. Probably didn’t see many dwarves. Curiosity was only natural.

He thought about saying as much, but words had gone out from under him.

Tauriel wasn’t done. “I have known Legolas his entire life. And you – you have helped him, and yet by your words you are a stranger to him.” She paused to look hard at him. Gimli’s face was set as if in stone. The cacophony of his thoughts had reached a pitch so high it was nearly silent.

“He even,” Tauriel continued slowly, “asks after you when you are gone. Have you an answer for that?”

Gimli opened his mouth. Paused. Took a deep breath. “I do not understand the question.”

“You have no connection to him?”

And how was Gimli to answer that? Sense and reason had one answer; his heart, another. Never had he intended to indulge the latter, but neither could he have predicted this.

“I knew not that he asked for me,” he said finally. “You speak truly?”

She nodded once. Her glimmering eyes were opaque and foreign to his eyes. “You have no answer?”

He said the only thing he could. “I am sorry. I do not.” A beat of silence. If Tauriel did not seem wholly accepting of this answer, neither did she look at him with doubt. Gimli gathered his nerve. “If you wonder at his behavior, then perhaps it is best to ask him the cause directly.”

She did not like that. He could see it in her brow and in the twitches of her hands. But she only nodded, once, and turned away.

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When Legolas next woke, the dwarf was gone.

The lights were dimmed. There was a stillness to the air that he misliked, for he was a creature of the open sky and to be separated from it chafed. Even in the long greyness of his suffering he had had the stars and sun above him.

In the flickering half-light, the slowly dying flowers arranged throughout the room took on an eerie quality. It was quieter than he’d ever known, and his ears burned with the silence. Legolas sat up slowly. His fingers found the flower crown laying beside him, and he traced over the petals gently.

A dark outline in the corner of the room moved forward and resolved into Tauriel. The long shadows hid her expression, and Legolas, looking upon her, had the oddest feeling that he beheld a stranger.

Then she crossed the room to him, and the familiarity of her stride dissipated his apprehension, though a feeling of wrongness still lingered.

“How do you feel?” she asked softly. Her hands were cool and dry at his forehead and the pulse-point of his wrist.

Legolas wondered if he was truly awake. The world seemed distant, even blurred. He shrugged.

Tauriel sighed. She looked away from him, and the light reflected onto her face and revealed lines of worry and exhaustion. “Your Ada wants you to come home.”

Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it. Legolas’ head ached dully. He felt confused, as if there were whole pieces of this conversation he had missed.

“I don’t feel well,” he whispered back, and the way his voice scraped up his throat underlined the point.

Tauriel looked at him, and there was so much worry in her face he felt his heart drop. “I know child,” she said, and stroked his hair comfortingly. He leaned into it. “We can go home, and your Ada will take care of you. Does that sound good?”

Legolas stared into the dimness of the room. _Yes_ was on the tip of his tongue. He did want to go home, to see his father again, to walk in the woods and feel at peace. But…

“What about Gimli?”

Her hands paused. Carefully, she pulled back, and looked at his face. “The dwarf?” she said, and there was something funny in her voice. “What about him?”

Legolas hesitated. Still he felt he was missing something. His voice, when it came, was unsure. “Can he come?”

“Why, don’t you like him?”

“I – what?” Legolas’ head hurt. His stomach was churning.

“Dwarves don’t do well in the forest, Legolas. Gimli has been kind to us. It would be cruel to take him from his caves.” Her voice was patient, much as it had been when she had taught him in his youth.

To his horror, Legolas felt tears prick his eyes. His breath hitched. Tauriel took one look at him and guided his head down to her shoulder. She hushed him, stroked soothingly at his hair and back. “It’s alright, child. You’re safe. Everything's alright.”

Tauriel had been an adult when Legolas was born and had helped raise him from infancy. He could not, _would_ not, treat with her harshly. But he felt the unbearable wrongness of it all rise up within himself. He shuddered in her grasp, and every gentle thing she said to him felt like a nail in his coffin.

Frightened, Legolas scrambled for words. His traitorous body trembled and spilled tears, more of confusion than pain. “No, no, I – no, Tauriel, I need –” he could not bring himself to tell her what he needed. It felt wrong, when he still hadn’t been able to speak properly with the dwarf. _Gimli._ He barely even knew his name! The thought of _that_ sent a fresh wave of tears down his cheeks. Legolas struggled to rein in his emotions. Every time he tried to breathe deeply, to regain control, Tauriel’s gentle kindness undid him again. “I can’t – I can’t – go to the forest, I – I’m – no.”

He sniffed, took a breath, but Tauriel didn’t let him continue. “No?” she sounded truly puzzled. “Surely you don’t want to stay here?”

His throat closed up. He knew exactly what she meant. _Here,_ in this airless room? _Here,_ underground, out of reach of the sky? Away from the forest? He would stay _here?_

The thought was impossible. Unbearable. Legolas took deep breaths, tried to think. Tauriel waited patiently. He glanced at her, but the concern was so strong on her face that he had to look away.

Should he tell her what had happened? It was not as if it would remain a secret anyway. And perhaps she could help him. Still, to tell her before he told Gimli…it didn’t seem right.

“I need to talk to Gimli,” he finally said lowly. His voice was rough with tears.

Tauriel…paused. “If you do that,” she asked carefully, “Then you will return with us?”

Legolas’ breath hitched again. “I can’t,” he whispered.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her consider this. Finally she put her arms gently around him again. The flower wreath was pressed between them, digging into Legolas’ ribs.

“How about this,” she said quietly. “I will ask the Dwarf King to allow you more time here to recover. If he agrees, we will stay here until you can walk again. Then we can go home. Your Ada has been waiting to see you again, little leaf.”

Legolas’ eyes stung at the reminder. He felt as if he was choking on his own homesickness, that it was drowning him. He nodded into her shoulder, even as he placed a hand on the little metal flowers pressing into his skin. At least this way he would have long enough to make arrangements with Gimli, and his father would not have to wait forever to see his only child again. It was the only thing he could think of in that moment that might be fair.

And yet he felt unhappiness rise in him like a tide. He and Tauriel did not speak again that night, but she held him even when his tears soaked through her shirt. In the morning Avornel came to check on them and found Tauriel with her head in her hands, weeping quietly next to Legolas, whose own red-rimmed eyes were closed in the deepest and more exhausted form of elven sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all my lovely reviewers. I've always known the general shape of this story, but hearing what y'all have to say gives me so many more ideas and inspiration. I appreciate all of you so very much. <3
> 
> I have a lot of things going on in my personal life that are making things difficult, in regards to this story. I do apologize for the delays between updates; please just know that they do not indicate a waning interest. I'm excited to continue and ultimately finish this story. The things I'm dealing with irl are not going to stop that, they just might delay me a bit. :)


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